"Mr. Finley, I say, Mr. Finley, here's one with a message upwards." Having thus delivered himself, he shut down his open eye, screwed his eyebrows, and became absorbed in abstruse meditation. Meanwhile, Mr. Finley, in person arrayed in a rich livery, advanced languidly toward Larry Toole, throwing into his face a dreamy and supercilious expression, while with one hand he faintly fanned himself with a white pocket handkerchief.
"Your most obedient servant to command," drawled the footman, as he advanced. "What can I do, my good soul, to obleege you?"
"I only want to see the young master—that's young Mr. Ashwoode," replied Larry, "for one minute, and that's all."
The footman gazed upon him for a moment with a languid smile, and observed in the same sleepy tone, "Absolutely impossible—amposseeble, as they say at the Pallais Royal."
"But, blur an' agers," exclaimed Larry, "it's a matther iv life an' death, robbery an' murdher."
"Bloody murder!" echoed the man in a sweet, low voice, and with a stare of fashionable abstraction.
"Well, tear an' 'oun's," cried Larry, almost beside himself with impatience, "if you won't bring him down to me, will you even as much as carry him a message?"
"To say the truth, and upon my honour," replied the man, "I can't engage to climb up stairs just now, they are so devilish fatiguing. Don't you find them so?"
The question was thrown out in that vacant, inattentive way which seems to dispense with an answer.
"By my soul!" rejoined Larry, almost crying with vexation, "it's a hard case. Do you mane to tell me, you'll neither bring him down to me nor carry him up a message?"