“Rely upon it, my dear boy,” said he, “I have watched over you like a parent; and having partly foreseen that something like this affair of to-night would take place sooner or later”—­

“What affair?” said Cudmore—­his eyes staring half out of his head.

“That business of the kettle.”

“Kett—­el.  The kettle!  What of that?” said Cudmore.

“What of it?  Why, if you don’t feel it, I am sure it is not my duty to remind you; only”—­

“Feel it—­oh, yes.  I saw them laughing, because I spilled the water over old Mrs. Jones, or something of that sort.”

“No, no, my dear young friend, they were not laughing at that—­their mirth had another object.”

“What the devil was it at, then?”

“You don’t know, don’t you?”

“No; I really do not.”

“Nor can’t guess—­eh?”

“Confound me if I can.”

“Well.  I see, Mr. Cudmore, you are really too innocent for these people.  But come—­it shall never be said that youth and inexperience ever suffered from the unworthy ridicule and cold sarcasm of the base world, while Tom O’Flaherty stood by a spectator.

“Sir,” said Tom, striking his hand with energy on the table, and darting a look of fiery indignation from his eye, “Sir, you were this night trepanned—­yes, sir, vilely, shamefully trepanned—­I repeat the expression—­into the performance of a menial office—­an office so degrading, so offensive, so unbecoming the rank, the station, and the habits of gentlemen, my very blood recoils when I only think of the indignity.”

The expression of increasing wonder and surprise depicted in Mr. Cudmore’s face at these words, my friend Phiz might convey—­I cannot venture to describe it—­suffice it to say, that even O’Flaherty himself found it difficult to avoid a burst of laughter, as he looked at him and resumed.

“Witnessing, as I did, the entire occurrence; feeling deeply for the inexperience which the heartless worldlings had dared to trample upon, I resolved to stand by you, and here I am come for that purpose.”

“Well, but what in the devil’s name have I done all this time?”

“What! are you still ignorant?—­is it possible?  Did you not hand the kettle from the fire-place, and fill the tea-pot?—­answer me that!”

“I did,” said Cudmore, with a voice already becoming tremulous.

“Is that the duty of a gentleman?—­answer me that.”

A dead pause stood in place of a reply, while Tom proceeded—­

“Did you ever hear any one ask me, or Counsellor Daly, or Mr. Fogarty, or any other person to do so?—­answer me that.”

“No; never” muttered Cudmore, with a sinking spirit.

“Well then why may I ask, were you selected for an office that by your own confession, no one else would stoop to perform?  I’ll tell you, because from your youth and inexperience, your innocence was deemed a fit victim to the heartless sneers of a cold and unfeeling world.”  And here Tom broke forth into a very beautiful apostrophe, beginning—­