‘I think, after all,’ said Kearney, ‘I’d rather keep out of the scrape than trust to that way of escaping it.’
‘He wouldn’t,’ said she. ‘He’d rather be seducin’ soldiers in Barrack Street, or swearing in a new Fenian, or nailing a death-warnin’ on a hall door, than he’d be lord mayor! If he wasn’t in mischief he’d like to be in his grave.’
‘And what comes of it all?’ said Kearney, scarcely giving any exact meaning to his words.
‘That’s what I do be saying myself,’ cried the hag. ‘When they can transport you for singing a ballad, and send you to pick oakum for a green cravat, it’s time to take to some other trade than patriotism!’ And with this reflection she shuffled away, to procure the materials for breakfast.
The fresh rolls, the watercress, a couple of red herrings devilled as those ancient damsels are expert in doing, and a smoking dish of rashers and eggs, flanked by a hissing tea-kettle, soon made their appearance, the hag assuring Kearney that a stout knock with the poker on the back of the grate would summon Mr. Donogan almost instantaneously—so rapidly, indeed, and with such indifference as to raiment, that, as she modestly declared, ‘I have to take to my heels the moment I call him,’ and the modest avowal was confirmed by her hasty departure.
The assurance was so far correct, that scarcely had Kearney replaced the poker, when the door opened, and one of the strangest figures he had ever beheld presented itself in the room. He was a short, thick-set man with a profusion of yellowish hair, which, divided in the middle of the head, hung down on either side to his neck—beard and moustache of the same hue, left little of the face to be seen but a pair of lustrous blue eyes, deep-sunken in their orbits, and a short wide-nostrilled nose, which bore the closest resemblance to a lion’s. Indeed, a most absurd likeness to the king of beasts was the impression produced on Kearney as this wild-looking fellow bounded forward, and stood there amazed at finding a stranger to confront him.
His dress was a flannel-shirt and trousers, and a pair of old slippers which had once been Kearney’s own.
‘I was told by the college woman how I was to summon you, Mr. Donogan,’ said Kearney good-naturedly. ‘You are not offended with the liberty?’
‘Are you Dick?’ asked the other, coming forward.
‘Yes. I think most of my friends know me by that name.’