“Let it be, 'To Ladies' eyes!'” cried Massingbred; “and we 'll drink 'Miss Martin's.' 'I 'll warrant she 'll prove an excuse for the glass.'” And he sang the line with such a mellow cadence that the whole table cheered him.
To the priest's song, given with considerable taste and no mean musical skill, there followed, in due course, others, not exactly so successful, by Brierley and Magennis, and, at last, by old Peter himself, who warbled out a wonderful ditty, in a tone so doleful that two of the company fell fast asleep under it, and Brierley's nerves were so affected that, to support himself, he got most completely drunk, and in a very peremptory tone told the singer to desist!
“Don't you perceive,” cried he, “that there 's a stranger present,—a young English cub,—come down to laugh at us? Have you no discretion,—have you no decency, Peter Hayes, but you must go on with your stupid old 'croniawn' about dimples and the devil knows what?”
“Another tumbler, Mr. Massingbred,—one more?” said the host, with the air, however, of one who did not exact compliance.
“Not for the world,” said Jack, rising from table. “Have I your permission to light a cigar?”
“To do just whatever you please,” said Nelligan, rather astonished at the formal preparations for smoking he now perceived brought forth, and which at the time we tell of were not so popular as in our own day.
The priest alone accepted Massingbred's offer of a “weed;” and Nelligan, opening a door into an adjoining room where tea was laid, threw also wide a little sash-door that led into the garden, whose cool and fragrant air was perfectly delicious at the moment. Jack strolled down the steps and soon lost himself in the dark alleys, not sorry to be left alone with his own thoughts, after a scene in which his convivial powers had been taxed to no mean extent.
“A clever young fellow! There's stuff in him,” said the priest, in a whisper to Nelligan.