CHAPTER IX.
A SOLDIER OF FORTUNE.
ON the day following the events detailed in our last chapter, O'Hara was seated in his chamber, hard at work at his desk, when a visitor announced himself at the door. It was the O'Hoolohan Roe—in the old suit.
'Take a seat—scribbling away for the bare life, as you see. Just finished.'
'I've come to ask you a favour. I presume you'll grant it.'
'Certainly, always presuming that it is such as a gentleman can grant.'
'Still harping on the old string.'
'Sir,' said O'Hara, getting annoyed, 'I have the misfortune to a certain extent to be your debtor; but I am not your valet. Here, take back the hundred francs you lent me, and we shall speak on more equal terms,' holding out his purse.
'Did I ever ask you for it?'
'If I do, I'm blest if I don't give it to the first beggar I meet on the highway.'