"I say, old gentleman, you've been having a little bit of a spree," observed he, gazing pleasantly upon the disconsolate figure of the little man, who sat in his shirt and jack-boots, staring at him with a woe-begone and bewildered air. "Why, you had a bushel of mud about your body when you came in, and no hat at all. Well, you had a pleasant night of it—there's no denying that."
"No hat;" said Larry desolately. "It isn't possible I dropped my hat off my head unknownest. Bloody wars, my hat! is it gone in airnest?"
"Yes, young gentleman, you came here bareheaded. The hat is gone, and that's a fact," replied the groom.
"I thought my coat was bad enough; but—oh! blur-anagers, my hat!" ejaculated Larry with abandonment. "Bad luck go with the liquor—tare-an-ouns, my hat!"
"There's a shoe off the horse," observed the groom; "and the seat is gone out of your breeches as clean as if it never was in it. Well, but you had a pleasant evening of it—you had."
"An' my breeches desthroyed—ruined beyant cure! See, Tom Berry, take a blundherbuz, will you, and put me out of pain at wonst. My breeches! Oh, divil go with the liquor! Holy Moses, is it possible?—my breeches!"
In an agony of contrition and desperate remorse, Larry Toole clasped his hands over his eyes and remained for some minutes silent; at length he said—
"An' what did the masther say? Don't be keeping me in pain—out with it at wonst."
"What master?" inquired the groom.
"What masther?" echoed Mr. Toole—"why Mr. O'Connor, to be sure."