“By-the-bye,” said another, “did you see how Sparks looked when Quill joined us? Egad, I never saw a fellow in such a fright; he reddened up, then grew pale, turned his back, and slunk away at the very first moment.”
“Yes, I remember it. We must find out the reason; for Maurice, depend upon it, has been hoaxing the poor fellow.”
“Well, O’Malley,” growled out the senior major, “you certainly did give Hampden a benefit. He’ll not trust himself in such company again; and begad, he says, the man is as bad as the master. That fellow of yours never let go his prisoner till he reached the quartermaster-general, and they were both bathed in blood by that time.”
“Poor Mike! we must do something for him.”
“Oh, he’s as happy as a king! Maurice has been in to see him, and they’ve had a long chat about Ireland, and all the national pastimes of whiskey drinking and smashing skulls. My very temples ache at the recollection.”
“Is Mister O’Mealey at home?” said a very rich Cork accent, as the well-known and most droll features of Dr. Maurice Quill appeared at the door.
“Come in, Maurice,” said the major; “and for Heaven’s sake, behave properly. The poor fellow must not have a row about his bedside.”
“A row, a row! Upon my conscience, it is little you know about a row, and there’s worse things going than a row. Which leg is it?”
“It’s an arm, Doctor, I’m happy to say.”
“Not your punch hand, I hope. No; all’s right. A neat fellow you have for a servant, that Mickey Free. I was asking him about a townsman of his own—one Tim Delany,—the very cut of himself, the best servant I ever had. I never could make out what became of him. Old Hobson of the 95th, gave him to me, saying, ‘There he is for you, Maurice, and a bigger thief and a greater blackguard there’s not in the 60th.’