“You are at Meurice’s,” resumed he; “a very good house, but give you bad wine, if they don’t know you. They know me,” added he, in a whisper; “never try any tricks upon me. I’ll just drop in upon you at six.”
“It is most unfortunate, Major; I can’t have the pleasure you speak of; we start in half an hour.”
“Never mind, Charley, never mind; another time. By-the-bye, now I think of it, don’t you remember something of a ten-pound note you owe me?”
“As well as I remember, Major, the circumstance was reversed. You are the debtor.”
“Upon my life, you are right; how droll. No matter; let me have the ten, and I’ll give you a check for the whole.”
The major thrust his tongue into his cheek as he spoke, gave another leer, pocketed the note, and sauntered down the pier, muttering something to himself about King David and greenhorns; but how they were connected I could not precisely overhear.
Baby Blake, or Mrs. Sparks,—to call her by her more fitting appellation,—is as handsome as ever, and not less good-humored and light-hearted, her severest trials being her ineffectual efforts to convert Sparks into something like a man for Galway.
Last of all, Mickey Free. Mike remains attached to our fortune firmly, as at first he opened his career; the same gay, rollicksome Irishman, making songs, making love, and occasionally making punch, he spends his days and his nights pretty much as he was wont to do some thirty years ago. He obtains an occasional leave of absence for a week or so, but for what precise purpose, or with what exact object, I have never been completely able to ascertain. I have heard, it as true, that a very fascinating companion and a most agreeable gentleman frequents a certain oyster-house in Dublin called Burton Bindon’s. I have also been told of a distinguished foreigner, whose black mustache and broken English were the admiration of Cheltenham for the last two winters. I greatly fear from the high tone of the conversation in the former, and for the taste in continental characters in the latter resort, that I could fix upon the individual whose convivial and social gifts have won so much of their esteem and admiration; but were I to run on thus, I should recur to every character of my story, with each and all of whom you have, doubtless, grown well wearied. So here for the last time, and with every kind wish, I say, adieu!