“Sir John Bull! Sir John Bull! murder! murder! my dear master, Sir John Bull! murder, robbery, and reward! let me in! for the love of the Holy Virgin! they are all after you!”
“Who? are you drunk, Terence?” said Sir John, opening the door.
“No, but they are mad—all mad.”
“Who?”
“The constable. They are all mad entirely, and the lord mayor, all along with your honour’s making me swear I would not tell your name. Sure they are all coming armed in a body to put you in jail for a forgery, unless I run back and tell them the truth—will I?”
“First tell me the truth, blunderer!”
“I’ll make my affidavit I never blundered, plase your honour, but just went to the merchant’s, as you ordered, with the draft, signed with the name I swore not to utter till past twelve. I presents the draft, and waits to be paid. ‘Are you Mr. O’Mooney’s servant?’ says one of the clerks after a while. ‘No, sir, not at all, sir,’ said I; ‘I’m Sir John Bull’s, at your sarvice.’ He puzzles and puzzles, and asks me did I bring the draft, and was that your writing at the bottom of it? I still said it was my master’s writing, Sir John Bull’s, and no other. They whispered from one up to t’other, and then said it was a forgery, as I overheard, and I must go before the mayor. With that, while the master, who was called down to be examined as to his opinion, was putting on his glasses to spell it out, I gives them, one and all, the slip, and whips out of the street door and home to give your honour notice, and have been breaking my heart at the door this half hour to make you hear—and now you have it all.”
“I am in a worse dilemma now than when between the horns of the bull,” thought Sir John: “I must now either tell my real name, avow myself an Irishman, and so lose my bet, or else go to jail.”
He preferred going to jail. He resolved to pretend to be dumb, and he charged Terence not to betray him. The officers of justice came to take him up: Sir John resigned himself to them, making signs that he could not speak. He was carried before a magistrate. The merchant had never seen Mr. Phelim O’Mooney, but could swear to his handwriting and signature, having many of his letters and drafts. The draft in question was produced. Sir John Bull would neither acknowledge nor deny the signature, but in dumb show made signs of innocence. No art or persuasion could make him speak; he kept his fingers on his lips. One of the bailiffs offered to open Sir John’s mouth. Sir John clenched his hand, in token that if they used violence he knew his remedy. To the magistrate he was all bows and respect: but the law, in spite of civility, must take its course.
Terence McDermod beat his breast, and called upon all the saints in the Irish calendar when he saw the committal actually made out, and his dear master given over to the constables. Nothing but his own oath and his master’s commanding eye, which was fixed upon him at this instant, could have made him forbear to utter, what he had never in his life been before so strongly tempted to tell—the truth.