'Thanks,' cried O'Hara, with effusion, for he couldn't help feeling the terrible awkwardness of his loss, and he began to see that his new acquaintance was a humorist. 'What might your name be, sir?'
'What might it be! It might be Beelzebub, but it isn't.'
'What is it, then, if that pleases you better?'
'What's in a name?'
O'Hara paused a moment. 'Right!' he answered at last; 'a name is nothing without money behind it.'
'Ay, ay, my lad; "what's in a name?" as the divine Williams says: it's nothing, as you remark—just about as much as your purse holds at present. Don't be angry with me; been that way myself. Know Goldsmith?—
| '"Ill fares the cove, to hastening duns a prey, |
| Whose bills accumulate and bobs decay." |
'Ha, ha!—see the point—Bills and Bobs. But look to the lassie; she's going off again, I fear;' and the queer stranger handed him the brandy-flask in which he had such faith.
'Caroline,' the grisette again murmured, and dropped off with glassy eyes into a tranced sleep, irregularly punctuated with sighs.