How this controversy was to be carried on further, it is not easy to say; but at this moment the door of the breakfast-room opened cautiously, and a wild rough head peeped stealthily in, which gradually was followed by the neck, and in succession the rest of the figure of Kerry O'Leary, who, dropping down on both knees before the Doctor, cried out in a most lamentable accent—
“Oh! Docther darlint—Docther dear—forgive me—for the love of Joseph, forgive me!”
Roach's temper was not in its blandest moment, and his face grew purple with passion, as he beheld the author of his misfortunes at his feet.
“Get out of my sight, you scoundrel, I never want to set eyes on you, till I see you in the dock—ay, with handcuffs on you.”
“Oh, murther, murther, is it take the law of me, for a charge of swan drops? Oh, Docther acushla, don't say you'll do it.”
“I'll have your life, as sure as my name's Roach.”
“Try him wi' a draught,” interposed M'Nab.
“Begorra, I'm willn',” cried Kerry, grasping at the mediation. “I'll take any thing, barrin' the black grease he gave the masther—that would kill the divil.”
This exceptive compliment to his skill was not so acceptable to the Doctor, whose passion boiled over at the new indignity.
“I'll spend fifty guineas, but I'll hang you,—there's my word on it.”