viper.  Well, I took the trouble to write it out, “un plat de chat;” “is that right?” says I, showing it to him.  “It is, my lord,” says he, looking at me as if I had two heads.  I never knew the manin’ of it for more than a month afther I shot poor Art through the two calves.  An’ he that fought two jewels before, all about cats, one of them with a Scotch gentleman that he gave the lie to, for saying that French cooks had a way of stewing cats you could not tell them from hares; and the other immadiately afther, with Lieutenant Rugge, of the Royal Navy, that got one stewed for fun, and afther my Cousin Art dined off it, like a man, showed him the tail and the claws.  It’s well he did not die of it, and no wondher he resented my invitation, though upon my honour, as a soldier and a gentleman, may I be stewed alive myself in a pot, Puddock my dear, if I had the laste notion of offering him the smallest affront!’

‘I begin to despair, Sir,’ exclaimed Puddock, ’of receiving the information without which ’tis vain for me to try to be useful to you; once more, may I entreat to know what is the affront of which you complain?’

‘You don’t know; raly and truly now, you don’t know?’ said O’Flaherty, fixing a solemn tipsy leer on him.

‘I tell you no, Thir,’ rejoined Puddock.

’And do you mean to tell me you did not hear that vulgar dog Nutter’s unmanly jokes?’

‘Jokes!’ repeated Puddock, in large perplexity, ’why I’ve been here in this town for more than five years, and I never heard in all that time that Nutter once made a joke—­and upon my life, I don’t think he could make a joke, Sir, if he tried—­I don’t, indeed, Lieutenant O’Flaherty, upon my honour!’

And rat it, Sir, how can I help it?’ cried O’Flaherty, relapsing into pathos.

‘Help what?’ demanded Puddock.

O’Flaherty took him by the hand, and gazing on his face with a maudlin, lacklustre tenderness, said:—­

’Absalom was caught by the hair of his head—­he was, Puddock—­long hair or short hair, or (a hiccough) no hair at all, isn’t it nature’s doing, I ask you my darlin’ Puddock, isn’t it?’ He was shedding tears again very fast.  ’There was Cicero and Julius Caesar, wor both as bald as that,’ and he thrust a shining sugar basin, bottom upward, into Puddock’s face. ‘I’m not bald; I tell you I’m not—­no, my darlin’ Puddock, I’m not—­poor Hyacinth O’Flaherty is not bald,’ shaking Puddock by both hands.

‘That’s very plain, Sir, but I don’t see your drift,’ he replied.

’I want to tell you, Puddock, dear, if you’ll only have a minute’s patience.  The door can’t fasten, divil bother it; come into the next room;’ and toppling a little in his walk, he led him solemnly into his bed-room—­the door of which he locked—­somewhat to Puddock’s disquietude, who began to think him insane.  Here having informed Puddock that Nutter was driving at the one point the whole evening, as any one that knew