“Quite a show-box, by Jove!” said he, at last, as he peered through a glass cabinet, where Chinese slippers, with models in ivory and carvings in box, were heaped promiscuously together; “upon my word, sir, you have a very remarkable collection. And who may be our friend in the boat here?” added he, turning to the grim visage of Bagenal Daly himself, who stared with a bold effrontery that would not have disgraced the original.
“The gentleman you see there,” said the Knight, “is the collector himself, and the other is his servant. They are represented in the costumes in which they made their escape from a captivity among the red men.”
“Begad!” said Dempsey, “that fellow with the tortoise painted on his forehead has a look of our old friend, Miss Daly; should n't wonder if he was a member of her family.”
“You have well guessed it; he is the lady's brother.”
“Ah, ah!” muttered Dempsey to himself, “always thought there was something odd about her,—never suspected Indian blood, however. How Mother Fum will stare when I tell her she's a Squaw! Didn't they show these things at the Rooms in Mary's Street? I think I saw them advertised in the papers.”
“I think you must mistake,” said the Knight; “they are the private collection of my friend.”
“And where may Woc-woc—confound his name!—the 'Howling Wind,' as he is pleased to call himself, be passing his leisure hours just now?”
“He is at present in Dublin, sir; and if you desire, he shall be made aware of your polite inquiries.”
“No, no—hang it, no!—don't like the look of him. Should have no objection, though, if he 'd pay old Bob Dempsey a visit, and frighten him out of this world for me.”
“Dinner, my lady,” said old Tate, as he threw open the doors into the dining-room, and bowed with all his accustomed solemnity.