“Ochone, ochone!” he cried at the top of his voice—“I’m murthered with ’em now intirely; and d—— ’em for boots—St. Peter be good to me.”
There was a general rush into the hall, and I was carried with the stream. The poor fellow who had broken his head would be sure to tell how I had robbed him of his shoes. The coachman was already helping him up, and Peter good-naturedly lent a hand.
“What on earth is the matter?” said Mr. O’Conor.
“He must be tipsy,” whispered Miss O’Conor, the maiden sister.
“I aint tipsy at all thin,” said Larry, getting up and rubbing the back of his head, and sundry other parts of his body. “Tipsy indeed!” And then he added when he was quite upright, “The dinner is sarved—at last.”
And he bore it all without telling! “I’ll give that fellow a guinea to-morrow morning,” said I to myself—“if it’s the last that I have in the world.”
I shall never forget the countenance of the Miss O’Conors as Larry scrambled up cursing the unfortunate boots—“What on earth has he got on?” said Mr. O’Conor.
“Sorrow take ’em for shoes,” ejaculated Larry. But his spirit was good and he said not a word to betray me.
We all then went in to dinner how we best could. It was useless for us to go back into the drawing-room, that each might seek his own partner. Mr. O’Conor “the masther,” not caring much for the girls who were around him, and being already half beside himself with the confusion and delay, led the way by himself. I as a stranger should have given my arm to Mrs. O’Conor; but as it was I took her eldest daughter instead, and contrived to shuffle along into the dining-room without exciting much attention, and when there I found myself happily placed between Kate and Fanny.
“I never knew anything so awkward,” said Fanny; “I declare I can’t conceive what has come to our old servant Larry. He’s generally the most precise person in the world, and now he is nearly an hour late—and then he tumbles down in the hall.”