O’Mooney had reason to be particularly vexed at being detected by this man, who spoke a miserable jargon, and who seemed not to have a very extensive range of ideas. He was one of those half-witted geniuses who catch at the shadow of an Irish bull. In fact, Phelim had merely made a lapsus lingual, and had used an expression justifiable by the authority of the elegant and witty Lord Chesterfield, who said—no, who wrote—that the English navy is the finest navy upon the face of the earth! But it was in vain for our hero to argue the point; he was detected—no matter how or by whom. But this was only his second detection, and three of his four days of probation were past.
He dined this day at Captain Murray’s. In the room in which they dined there was a picture of the captain, painted by Romney. Sir John, who happened to be seated opposite to it, observed that it was a very fine picture; the more he looked at it, the more he liked it. His admiration was at last unluckily expressed: he said, “That’s an incomparable, an inimitable picture; it is absolutely more like than the original.” [63]
A keen Scotch lady in company smiled, and repeated, “More like than the original! Sir John, if I had not been told by my relative here that you were an Englishman, I should have set you doon, from that speech, for an Irishman.”
This unexpected detection brought the colour, for a moment, into Sir John’s face; but immediately recovering his presence of mind, he said, “That was, I acknowledge, an excellent Irish bull; but in the course of my travels I have heard as good English bulls as Irish.”
To this Captain Murray politely acceded, and he produced some laughable instances in support of the assertion, which gave the conversation a new turn.
O’Mooney felt extremely obliged to the captain for this, especially as he saw, by his countenance, that he also had suspicions of the truth. The first moment he found himself alone with Murray, our hero said to him, “Murray, you are too good a fellow to impose upon, even in jest. Your keen country-woman guessed the truth—I am an Irishman, but not a swindler. You shall hear why I conceal my country and name; only keep my secret till to-morrow night, or I shall lose a hundred guineas by my frankness.”
O’Mooney then explained to him the nature of his bet. “This is only my third detection, and half of it voluntary, I might say, if I chose to higgle, which I scorn to do.”
Captain Murray was so much pleased by this openness, that as he shook hands with O’Mooney, he said, “Give me leave to tell you, sir, that even if you should lose your bet by this frank behaviour, you will have gained a better thing—a friend.”
In the evening our hero went with his friend and a party of gentlemen to Maidenhead, near which place a battle was to be fought next day, between two famous pugilists, Bourke and Belcher. At the appointed time the combatants appeared upon the stage; the whole boxing corps and the gentlemen amateurs crowded to behold the spectacle. Phelim O’Mooney’s heart beat for the Irish champion Bourke; but he kept a guard upon his tongue, and had even the forbearance not to bet upon his countryman’s head. How many rounds were fought, and how many minutes the fight lasted, how many blows were put in on each side, or which was the game man of the two, we forbear to decide or relate, as all this has been settled in the newspapers of the day; where also it was remarked, that Bourke, who lost the battle, “was put into a post-chaise, and left standing half an hour, while another fight took place. This was very scandalous on the part of his friends,” says the humane newspaper historian, “as the poor man might possibly be dying.”
Our hero O’Mooney’s heart again got the better of his head. Forgetful of his bet, forgetful of every thing but humanity, he made his way up to the chaise, where Bourke was left. “How are you, my gay fellow?” said he. “Can you see at all with the eye that’s knocked out?”