Bulworthy is evidently well off.
"Hallo, what noise is that proceeding from yonder room?"
"Get out, you scoundrel."
It is a fat, gurgling, wheezy kind of voice, Bulworthy's, and speaking sets him coughing an uncomfortable, apoplectic sort of cough, like the sough of wind escaping from a cracked bellows.
"Get out, you vagabone; ugh! ouf!"
A singular-looking man-servant makes a sudden exit from the room, very evidently hurt, physically, just as an equally singular female domestic enters at the door, having a substantial matutinal repast upon a large-sized tray.
"Keep us from harum," said she, in a delicious Tipperary brogue, soft as honey; "and what's that?"
"Troth, an it's me, Moll, I b'leeve," replied the ejected, lustily rubbing the part affected.
"What's happened, Barney?"
"Oh! it's ould Bulworthy, bad cess to him," said Barney, in an undertone, wincing and twisting from pain; "he's what he calls astonishin' me."