"Well, then, since you press me," said I, "I certainly have my misgivings."
"And what about, pray?"
"May I venture to ask who the elderly person is, at whom your allegory is directed?"
"I have no objection at all," Rory replied, "if you give me your word you won't mention it again."
"Honor bright."
"Well, then, it's old Tom Gallagher, the saw-bones."
Oh! my internal machinery ceased working, for an instant; had I a girl's privilege, I should have fainted outright; it was a shock; a stunning one, and no mistake.
"What's the matter with you?" inquired Rory, seeing me gasp like a fresh-caught perch.
"Oh! Rory," I cried, grasping his hand with the sudden affection that similarity of misfortune always instigates. "Rory, my friend, did you see my Valentine in the Tipperary Gazette?"
"Yes, and liked it," said he, in a tone of sincerity; "but who was Plutus?"