A pleasant postcript also mentioned that a dissolution of Parliament was daily expected, and that it would be well you 'd “come home and look after the borough, where the Tories were working night and day to increase their influence.”
“Bad luck to them for Tories!” muttered he, as he threw the crumpled document from him. “I 'd have been well off to-day if it was n't for them. There's no telling the money the contested elections cost me, while, to make out that I was a patriot, I could n't take a place, but had to go on voting and voting out of the purity of my motives. It was an evil hour when I took to politics at all. Joe! Joe!” cried he, aloud, following up the appeal with a shrill whistle.
“Tear and ages, sure the house isn't on fire!” said a man, rushing into the room with an air and manner that little indicated the respect due from a servant to his master; “not to say,” added he, “that it's not dacent or becomin' to whistle after me, as if I was a tarrier or a bull-dog.”
“Hold your prate, will you?” said Mr. O'Shea.
“Why would I? 'Tis humiliated I am before all in the place.”
“Will you hold your prate?” muttered his master, in a deeper tone, while, stretching forth his hand, he seemed in search of any missile to hurl at his mutinous follower.
“If I do, then, it's undher protest, mind that I put it on record that I 'm only yieldin' to the 'vis magiory.'”
“What o'clock is it?” yawned out O'Shea.
“It wants a trifle of four o'clock.”
“And the day,—what's it like?”