“Then what is he dunning you for?”
“O, he’s dunning me to get me to borrow money of him, and I know he can’t afford to lend it.”
“Go and see him, my dear, and treat him civilly at least.”
Pompilard turned to the Major, who was now deep in his Prospectus, and fired with the thought of a grand success that should make amends for all his past failures in authorship. Seeing that the invalid was thoroughly cured of his attack of the blues, Pompilard remarked, “Strike while the iron’s hot, Major,” and passed out to meet the visitor who was waiting for him below.
Pat Maloney was pacing the parlor in a great rage; and he exploded in these words, as Pompilard presented himself: “Arn’t ye ashamed to look an honest man in the face, yer desateful ould sinner?”
“What’s the bother now, Pat? Whose mare’s dead?” said Pompilard.
“Whose mare’s dead, yer wicked ould man? Is that the kind o’ triflin’ ye think is goin’ down wid Pat Maloney? Look at that wall.”
“Well, what of it?”
“What of it? See the cracks of it, bedad, and the dirt of it, and the damp of it, and hearken to the rats of it, yer wicked ould man! What of it? See that baste of a cockroach comin’ out as confidint as ye plaze, and straddlin’ across the floor. Smell that smell up there in the corner. Dead rats, by jabbers! And this is the entertainment, is it, ye bring a dacent family to, that wasn’t born to stenches and filthiness! Typhus and small-pox in every plank under the feet of ye! And a sick sodger ye’ve got in the house too; and because he wasn’t quite kilt down in them swamps on the Chickahominy, ye think ye’ll stink him to death in this hole of all the nastiness!”
“Mr. Maloney, this is my house, sir, such as it is, and I must request you either to walk out of it or to keep a civil tongue in your head.”