“I 'm amazed at that; never heard of my curious speculations about the Candian mouse! The fellow has a voice like a human being; you 'd hear him crying in the woods, and you 'd swear it was a child. I 've a notion that the Greeks took their word 'mousikos' from this fellow. But that 's not what I 'm looking for; no, but here it is. This is squib No. 1: 'Tuesday morning. We are at length enabled to state that the young gentleman who took such a prominent part in defending the military against the savage and murderous attack of the mob in the late riot in College Green is now out of danger; being removed to Captain Bubbleton's quarters in George's Street Barracks, he was immediately trepanned—'”
“Eh? trepanned!”
“No, you weren't trepanned; but Pepper said you might have been though, and he 'd just as soon do it as not; so I put in trepanned. 'The pia mater was fortunately not cut through.' That you don't understand; but no matter,—hem, hem! 'Congestion of—' hem, hem! 'In our next, we hope to give a still more favorable report.' Then here's the next: 'To the aide-decamp sent to inquire after the “hero of College Green,” the answer this morning was, “Better; able to sit up.”' Well, here we go,—No. 3: 'His Excellency mentioned this morning at the Privy Council the satisfaction he felt at being able to announce that Mr. (from motives of delicacy we omit the name) is now permitted to take some barley gruel, with a spoonful of old Madeira. The Bishop of Ferns and Sir Boyle Roach both left their cards yesterday at the barracks.' I waited a day or two after this; but—would you believe it?—no notice was taken; not even the Opposition papers said a word, except some insolent rascal in 'The Press' asks, 'Can you tell your readers, Are we to have anything more from Captain Bubbleton?' So then I resolved to come out in force, and here you see the result: 'Friday, 20th. It is now our gratifying task to announce the complete restoration of the young gentleman whose case has, for some weeks past, been the engrossing topic of conversation of all ranks and classes, from the table of the Viceroy to the humble denizen of Mud Island. Mr. Burke is the only son and heir to the late Matthew Burke, of Cremore, county of Galway. His family have been long distinguished for their steady, uncompromising loyalty; nor is the hereditary glory of their house likely to suffer in the person of the illustrious youth, who, we learn, is now to be raised to the baronetcy under the title of Sir Thomas Bubbleton Burke, the second name assumed to commemorate the services of Captain Bubbleton, whose—'Of course I dilated a little here to round the paragraph. Well, this did it; here was the shell that exploded the magazine. For early this morning I received a polite note from the Castle,—I won't tell you the writer, though; I like a good bit of surprise. And egad, now I think on 't, I won't say anything more about the letter either, only that we 're in luck, my lad, as you 'll soon acknowledge. What 's the hour now? Ah! a quarter to twelve. But wait, I think I hear him in the next room. Jump up, and dress as fast as you can, while I do the honors.”
With this the captain bustled out of the room; and, although he banged the door after him, I could hear his voice in the act of welcoming some new arrival.
In spite of the sea of nonsense and absurdity through which I had waded in the last half-hour, the communication he had made me excited my curiosity to the utmost, and in some respect rendered me uneasy. It was no part whatever of my object to afford any clue to Basset by which he might trace me; and although much of the fear I had formerly entertained of that dreaded personage had evaporated with increased knowledge of the world, yet old instincts preserved their influence over me, and I felt as though Tony Basset would be a name of terror to me for my life long. It was quite clear, however, that the application from the Castle to which he alluded could have no reference to the honest attorney; and with this comforting reflection, which I confess came somewhat late, I finished my dressing, and prepared to leave my room.
“Oh, here he comes!” cried Bubbleton, as he flung open my door, and announced my approach. “Come along, Tom, and let us see if your face will let you be recognized.”
I scarcely had crossed the threshold when I started back with affright, and had it not been for the wall against which I leaned, must have fallen. The stranger, whose visit was to afford me so much of pleasure was no other than Major Barton; there he stood, his arm leaning on the chimney-piece, the same cool malicious smile playing about the angles of his mouth which I noticed the first day I saw him in the glen. His sharp eyes shot on me one quick, searching glance, and then turned to the door; from which again they were directed to me as if some passing thought had moved them.
Bubbleton was the first to speak, for not noticing either the agitation I was under or the stern expression of Barton's features, he ran on:—
“Eh, Major! that's your friend, isn't it? Changed a bit, I suppose; a little blanched, but in a good cause, you know,—that's the thing. Come, Tom, you don't forget your old friend. Major—what 's the name?”
“Barton,” repeated the other, dryly.