“To be sure it is, man,” said Power. “Anne Street is devilish seedy, but that’s the quarter.”
“Why, confound it, man!” said the other; “there’s not a word of that here.”
“Read it out,” said Power. “Proclaim aloud my victory.”
Thus urged, Lechmere read:—
DEAR P.,—
Please pay to my credit,—and soon, mark ye!—the two ponies
lost this evening. I have done myself the pleasure of enjoying your
ball, kissed the lady, quizzed the papa, and walked into the cunning
Fred Power. Yours,
FRANK WEBBER.
“The Widow Malone, ohone!” is at your service.
Had a thunderbolt fallen at his feet, his astonishment could not have equalled the result of this revelation. He stamped, swore, raved, laughed, and almost went deranged. The joke was soon spread through the room, and from Sir George to poor Lucy, now covered with blushes at her part in the transaction, all was laughter and astonishment.
“Who is he? That is the question,” said Sir George, who, with all the ridicule of the affair hanging over him, felt no common relief at the discovery of the imposition.
“A friend of O’Malley’s,” said Power, delighted, in his defeat, to involve another with himself.
“Indeed!” said the general, regarding me with a look of a very mingled cast.
“Quite true, sir,” said I, replying to the accusation that his manner implied; “but equally so, that I neither knew of his plot nor recognized him when here.”