When Lord Agincoort returned to his hotel, he was astonished to see waiters passing in and out of his apartment with trays covered with dishes, decanters of wine, and plates of fruit; but as he caught the deep tone of O'Shea's voice from within, he quickly understood how that free-and-easy personage was making himself at home.
“Oh, it is here you are!” said Agincourt, entering; “and Charley and I have been just speculating whether you might not have been expiating some of your transgressions in an Austrian jail.”
“I am here, as you perceive,” said the O'Shea, wiping his lips with his napkin, “and doing indifferently well, too. By the way they treat me, I 'm given to believe that your credit stands well with the hotel people.”
“When did you arrive?”
“An hour ago; just in time to make them roast that hedgehog. They call it a sucking-pig, but I know it's a hedgehog, though I was eight-and-forty hours without eating.”
“How was that?”
“This way,” said he, as he drew out the lining of his pockets, and showed that they were perfectly empty. “I just left myself enough for the diligence fare from Bologna, and one roll of bread and a pint of wine as I started; since that I have tasted nothing but the pleasures of hope. Don't talk to me, therefore, or talk away, but don't expect me to answer you for fifteen minutes more.”
Agincourt nodded, and seated himself at the table, in quiet contemplation of the O'Shea's performance. “I got an answer to my letter about you,” said he, at length, and rather curious to watch the struggle between his hunger and his curiosity.
O'Shea gave a nod, as though to say “Proceed;” but Agincourt said nothing.
“Well, go on!” cried O'Shea, as he helped himself to half a duck.