"Be Jasus! me dear frind—and you're insulthing the finest fature in this fine prison," exclaimed the captain: "it's the coffee-house."
Mr. Curtis did not like to say how deeply he was disappointed at the unpromising exterior of an establishment which his companion seemed so especially to admire; and he therefore silently followed his guide into the coffee-room, which was just large enough to contain four very little tables and yield accommodation to about a dozen people at a time.
There was nearly that number present when Captain O'Blunderbuss and Frank Curtis entered the place; and as there were not two seats disengaged, the gallant officer put his arms akimbo, fixed his eyes sternly on a stout, inoffensive-looking old gentleman, and, without positively addressing his words to him, exclaimed, "Be the holy poker-r! and I should advise some one to be afther making room on a binch for my frind and myself—or I'll know the rayson why!"
The inoffensive-looking gentleman shrank dismayed into a corner, and, two or three others pressing closer together, sufficient space was obtained to afford Captain O'Blunderbuss and Mr. Frank Curtis seats; and the former, as he took his place at a table, cast a particularly ferocious glance around on the assembled company, as much as to say, "Be the power-rs! and ye'd betther not be afther having any of your nonsense with me!" But as no one at the moment seemed at all inclined to make even an attempt to interfere with the gallant gentleman, his countenance gradually lost its menacing aspect; and he ordered the waiter—a slip-shod, dirty boy—to bring a bottle of wine, spirits not being allowed.
The company presented to the view of Mr. Frank Curtis rather a motley aspect. There was a sample of nearly all kinds of social distinctions,—a sprig of the aristocracy—a broken-down sporting gentleman—a decayed tradesman—a bankrupt merchant—an insolvent parson—a ruined gamester—a prize-fighter—a horse-chaunter—an attorney, who had over-reached himself—a poor author—and one or two others who bore the vague and much misappropriated denomination of "gentleman." All these were herding together in a glorious state of democratic equality; for a debtors' prison goes far to level distinctions, the lordling being very often glad to obtain a draught of ale from the pewter-pot of a butcher.
The entrance of Captain O'Blunderbuss and Frank Curtis, both of whom were taken for new prisoners and stared at accordingly, seemed to have interrupted a conversation that was previously going on;—and for a few minutes a dead silence prevailed. But at last, when the wine which the captain had ordered was brought in, and that gallant gentleman and Curtis gave evident proofs of an inclination to enjoy themselves by enquiring likewise for cigars, the company recovered the feeling of hilarity on which the awful appearance of O'Blunderbuss had seemed for a few minutes to throw a complete damper.
"Well, how did Jackson get on to-day at Portugal Street?" enquired a rakish, dissipated looking young gentleman, who was smoking a cigar and drinking a pint of Port-wine.
"He got sent back for six months," answered the person to whom the question was put, and who was a stout, big man, in very seedy attire. "It seems that his schedule was made up of accommodation bills, and the opposition was desperate."
"You talk of accommodation bills, Muggles," observed the young gentleman; "why, all my debts are in paper of that kind. There's seventeen thousand pounds against me at the gate; and I'd take my affidavit that I never had more than three thousand in actual value. So I suppose I shall get it from the old Commissioner?"
"No, you won't, Pettifer, my boy," cried a short, elderly, dapper-looking man, putting down a quart pot in which his countenance had been buried for upwards of a minute before he began to speak; "your father's a lord—and that's enough," he added, looking mysteriously around.