"Proggs, the officer-r—by God!" vociferated the latter, starting from his seat.
"Yes—it's me and my master, Mr. Mac Grab, at your service, gen'lemen," said Proggs, pushing his way past the footman, and entering the room with his hat on his head and his stout stick in his hand. "Please, Mr. Curtis, sir—you're wanted."
And as these words were uttered by the subordinate, the principal himself—namely, Mr. Mac Grab—made his appearance (and a very dirty one it was too) in the door-way; while the footman stood aghast, and Mrs. Curtis went off into hysterics.
"Wanted!" cried Frank, casting an appealing glance towards the Captain: "who the devil wants me?"
"Whose suit is it at, sir?" asked Proggs, turning towards his superior.
"Beeswing, wine-merchant—debt, two hundred pounds, owing by the lady," answered Mr. Mac Grab.
"Is it arresting my friend Misther Curtis, ye mane?" demanded Captain O'Blunderbuss, advancing towards the officers with tremendous fierceness, now that he found his own personal security unendangered.
"And why not?" growled Mac Grab, shrouding himself behind his man Proggs.
"Is it why not, ye're afther asking?" shouted Captain O'Blunderbuss. "Now, be Jasus! and if ye don't both make yourselves as scarce as ye was before ye was bor-rn, it's myself that'll tayche ye a lesson of purliteness in the twinkling of a bed-post."
"Oh! that's all gammon," muttered Proggs. "Mr. Curtis must either pay the money or come along with us."