Seated in a large arm-chair, a smoking tumbler of mulled port before him, sat my friend Mike, dressed in my full regimentals, even to the helmet, which, unfortunately however for the effect, he had put on back foremost; a short “dudeen” graced his lip, and the trumpet so frequently alluded to lay near him.
Opposite him sat a short, puny, round-faced little gentleman with rolling eyes and a turned up nose. Numerous sheets of paper, pens, etc., lay scattered about; and he evinced, by his air and gesture, the most marked and eager attention to Mr. Free’s narrative, whose frequent interruptions, caused by the drink and the oysters, were viewed with no small impatience by the anxious editor.
“You must remember, Captain, time’s passing; the placards are all out. Must be at press before one o’clock to-night,—the morning edition is everything with us. You were at the first parallel, I think.”
“Devil a one o’ me knows. Just ring that bell near you. Them’s elegant oysters; and you’re not taking your drop of liquor. Here’s a toast for you: ‘May—’ Whoop! raal Carlingford’s, upon my conscience! See now, if I won’t hit the little black chap up there the first shot.”
Scarcely were the words spoken, when a little painted bust of Shakespeare fell in fragments on the floor, as an oyster-shell laid him low.
A faint effort at a laugh at the eccentricities of his friend was all the poor editor could accomplish, while Mike’s triumph knew no bounds.
“Didn’t I tell you? But come now, are you ready? Give the pen a drink, if you won’t take one yourself.”
“I am ready, quite ready,” responded the editor.
“Faith, and it’s more nor I am. See now, here it is: The night was murthering dark; you could not see a stim.”
“Not see a—a what?”