It was true that Phelim did not speak with any Irish brogue: his mother was an English woman, and he had lived much with English officers in Cork, and he had studied and imitated their manner of speaking so successfully, that no one, merely by his accent, could have guessed that he was an Irishman.
“Hey! brother, I say!” continued Phelim, in a triumphant English tone; “I never was taken for an Irishman in my life. Colonel Broadman told me the other day, I spoke English better than the English themselves; that he should take me for an Englishman, in any part of the known world, the moment I opened my lips. You must allow that not the smallest particle of brogue is discernible on my tongue.”
His brother allowed that not the smallest particle of brogue was to be discerned upon Phelim’s tongue, but feared that some Irish idiom might be perceived in his conversation. And then the name of O’Mooney!
“Oh, as to that, I need not trouble an act of parliament, or even a king’s letter, just to change my name for a season; at the worst, I can travel and appear incognito.”
“Always?”
“No: only just till I’m upon good terms with the lady —— Mrs. Phelim O’Mooney, that is to be, God willing. Never fear, nor shake your head, brother; you men of business are out of this line, and not proper judges: I beg your pardon for saying so, but as you are my own brother, and nobody by, you’ll excuse me.”
His brother did excuse him, but continued silent for some minutes; he was pondering upon the means of persuading Phelim to give up this scheme.
“I would lay you any wager, my dear Phelim,” said he, “that you could not continue four days in England incognito.”
“Done!” cried Phelim. “Done for a hundred pounds; done for a thousand pounds, and welcome.”
“But if you lose, how will you pay?”