"Well, so he is," said the Honourable Mr. Pettifer, lolling back in a very aristocratic manner, and speaking for the behoof of Captain O'Blunderbuss and Frank Curtis; "it's true that my father is Lord Cobbleton, and that I'm his second son. But, after all—what's a nobleman's second son?"
"Be Jasus! and what indeed?" cried the captain. "Why, my grandfather was Archbishop of Dublin—and my father was his son—and I'm my father's son—and yet, be the power-rs! I'm only a capthain now! But if I hadn't half a million, or some thrifle of the kind locked up in Chancery, I should be afther rowlling in my carriage—although I do keep a buggy and a dog-cart, as it is—and my frind Curthis here, jintlemen, wouldn't be in the Binch for two hunthred thousand pounds, as he is and bad luck to it!"
"Well—but you know, captain," said Frank, who was determined not to be behind his gallant companion in the art of lying, and who therefore very readily took up the cue prepared for him,—"you know, captain, that the moment my god-father the Duke comes home, I shall be all right."
"Right!—right as a thrivet, me boy!" vociferated O'Blunderbuss; "and then we'll carry on the war-r-r with a vengeance."
These remarks on the part of the captain and Frank Curtis produced a deep impression upon the greater portion of the company present; but two or three of the oldest prisoners tipped each other the wink slyly, as much as to say, "Ain't they coming it strong?"—although they did not dare provoke the ire of the ferocious Hibernian by any overt display of their scepticism.
"Speaking of Chancery," said an old, miserable-looking man, in a wretchedly thread-bare suit of black, and whose care-worn countenance showed an intimate acquaintance with sorrow,—"speaking of Chancery," he repeated, leaning forward from the corner in which he had hitherto remained silent and almost unobserved,—"you can't know Chancery, sir—begging your pardon—better or more bitterly than I do."
"Ah! tell the gentlemen your story, Prout," exclaimed one of the company. "'Pon my soul 'tis a hard case, and a stain upon a civilised country.
"A stain!" ejaculated the old man, whose name appeared to be Prout;—"a stain!" he cried, in a tone of painful irony:—"it is a horror—an abomination—an atrocity that demands vengeance on those legislators who know that such abuses exist and who will not remedy them! Chancellors—Vice-Chancellors—Judges—Law-Lords—Members of Parliament—Attorney-Generals—Solicitor-Generals—all, all for the last two-and-twenty years, so help me God! have been familiar with my case—and yet the Court of Chancery remains as it is, the most tremendous abuse—the most damnable Inquisition—the most grinding, soul-crushing, heart-breaking engine of torture that the ingenuity of man ever yet invented! Yes—all that—and more—more, if I could find stronger language to express myself in—is that earthly reflection of hell—the Court of Chancery!"
The old man had spoken with a volubility which had increased in quickness and in emphasis until it positively grew painful to hear;—and his countenance became flushed with a hectic, unhealthy red—and his eyes, usually leaden and dull, were fired with an unnatural lustre—and his chest heaved convulsively—and his lips quivered with the dreadful excitement produced in his attenuated and worn-out frame by the remembrance of his wrongs.