“No; I really do not.”
“Nor can’t guess—eh?”
“Confound me if I can.”
“Well. I see, Mr. Cudmore, you are really too innocent for these people. But come—it shall never be said that youth and inexperience ever suffered from the unworthy ridicule and cold sarcasm of the base world, while Tom O’Flaherty stood by a spectator.
“Sir,” said Tom, striking his hand with energy on the table, and darting a look of fiery indignation from his eye, “Sir, you were this night trepanned—yes, sir, vilely, shamefully trepanned—I repeat the expression—into the performance of a menial office—an office so degrading, so offensive, so unbecoming the rank, the station, and the habits of gentlemen, my very blood recoils when I only think of the indignity.”
The expression of increasing wonder and surprise depicted in Mr. Cudmore’s face at these words, my friend Phiz might convey—I cannot venture to describe it—suffice it to say, that even O’Flaherty himself found it difficult to avoid a burst of laughter, as he looked at him and resumed.
“Witnessing, as I did, the entire occurrence; feeling deeply for the inexperience which the heartless worldlings had dared to trample upon, I resolved to stand by you, and here I am come for that purpose.”
“Well, but what in the devil’s name have I done all this time?”
“What! are you still ignorant?—is it possible? Did you not hand the kettle from the fire-place, and fill the tea-pot?—answer me that!”
“I did,” said Cudmore, with a voice already becoming tremulous.