“Ha!” said he, as we closed the door behind us, and advanced into the room, “and so you are penitent. Well, Hal, I forgive you. It was a scurvy trick, though; but I remember it no longer. Here, take a pull at the pewter, and tell us all the Dublin news.”
It is not our intention, dear reader, to indulge in the same mystification with you, that we practised on our friend Mr. O’Leary—or, in other words, to invent for your edification, as we confess to have done for his, all the events and circumstances which might have, but did not, take place in Dublin for the preceding month. It is enough to say that about eleven o’clock Mr. O’Leary was in the seventh heaven of conversational contentment, and in the ninth flagon of purl.
“Open it—let me see it. Come, Hal, divulge at once,” said he, kicking the carpet-bag that contained our manuscript. We undid the lock, and emptied our papers before him. His eyes sparkled as the heavy folds fell over each other on the table, his mouth twitched with a movement of convulsive pleasure. “Ring the bell, my lad,” said he; “the string is beside you. Send the master, Mary,” continued he, as the maiden entered.
Peter Mahoon soon made his appearance, rather startled at being summoned from his bed, and evidencing in his toilette somewhat more of zeal than dandyism.
“Is the house insured, Peter?” said Mr. O’Leary.
“No, sir,” rejoined he, with a searching look around the room, and a sniff of his nose, to discover if he could detect the smell of fire.
“What’s the premises worth, Peter?”
“Sorrow one of me knows right, sir. Maybe a hundred and fifty, or it might bring two hundred pounds.”
“All right,” said O’Leary briskly, as seizing my manuscript with both hands he hurled it on the blazing turf fire; and then grasping the poker, stood guard over it, exclaiming as he did so,—“Touch it, and by the beard of the Prophet I’ll brain you. Now, there it goes, blazing up the chimney. Look how it floats up there! I never expected to travel like that anyhow. Eh, Hal? Your work is a brilliant affair, isn’t it?—and as well puffed as if you entertained every newspaper editor in the kingdom? And see,” cried he, as he stamped his foot upon the blaze, “the whole edition is exhausted already—not a copy to be had for any money.”
We threw ourselves back in our chair, and covered our face with our hands. The toil of many a long night, of many a bright hour of sun and wind, was lost to us for ever, and we may be pardoned if our grief was heavy.