“And wasn’t the army three months and a half in just getting that far, with a battering train and mortars and the finest troops ever were seen? And there you sit, a little fat creature, with your pen in your hand, grumbling that you can’t do more than the whole British army. Take care you don’t provoke me to beat you; for I am quiet till I’m roused. But, by the Rock o’ Cashel—”
Here he grasped the brass trumpet with an energy that made the editor spring from his chair.
“For mercy’s sake, Mr. Free—”
“Well, I won’t; but sit down there, and don’t be bothering me about sieges and battles and things you know nothing about.”
“I protest,” rejoined Mr. Meekins, “that, had you not sent to my office intimating your wish to communicate an account of the siege, I never should have thought of intruding myself upon you. And now, since you appear indisposed to afford the information in question, if you will permit me, I’ll wish you a very good-night.”
“Faith, and so you shall, and help me to pass one too; for not a step out o’ that chair shall you take till morning. Do ye think I am going to be left here by myself all alone?”
“I must observe—” said Mr. Meekins.
“To be sure, to be sure,” said Mickey; “I see what you mean. You’re not the best of company, it’s true; but at a pinch like this—There now, take, your liquor.”
“Once for all, sir,” said the editor, “I would beg you to recollect that, on the faith of your message to me, I have announced an account of the storming of Ciudad Rodrigo for our morning edition. Are you prepared, may I ask, for the consequences of my disappointing ten thousand readers?”
“It’s little I care for one of them. I never knew much of reading myself.”