Pat. Never fear, your honour. I’ll tell her the story we agreed on, of Honor McBride meeting of Randal Rooney behind the chapel.
O’Bla. That will do—don’t forget the ring; for I mane to put another on the girl’s finger, if she’s agreeable, and knows her own interest. But that last’s a private article. Not a word of that to Catty, you understand.
Pat. Oh! I understand—and I’ll engage I’ll compass Catty, tho’ she’s a cunning shaver.
O’Bla. Cunning?—No; she’s only hot tempered, and asy managed.
Pat. Whatever she is, I’ll do my best to plase you. And I expict your honour, counsellor, won’t forget the promise you made me, to ask Mr. Carver for that little place—that situation that would just shute me.
O’Bla. Never fear, never fear. Time enough to think of shuting you, when you’ve done my business. {Exit PAT. That will work like harm, and ould Matthew, the father, I’ll speak to, myself, genteelly. He will be proud, I warrant, to match his daughter with a gentleman like me. But what if he should smell a rat, and want to be looking into my affairs? Oh! I must get it sartified properly to him before all things, that I’m as safe as the bank; and I know who shall do that for me—my worthy friend, that most consequential magistrate, Mr. Carver of Bob’s Fort, who loves to be advising and managing of all men, women, and children, for their good. ‘Tis he shall advise ould Matthew for my good. Now Carver thinks he lades the whole county, and ten mile round—but who is it lades him, I want to know? Why, Gerald O’Blaney.—And how? Why, by a spoonful of the universal panacea, flattery—in the vulgar tongue, flummery. (A knock at the door heard.) Who’s rapping at the street?—Carver of Bob’s Fort himself, in all his glory this fair-day. See then how he struts and swells. Did ever man, but a pacock, look so fond of himself with less rason? But I must be caught deep in accounts, and a balance of thousands to credit. (Sits down to his desk, to account books.) Seven thousand, three hundred, and two pence. (Starting and rising.) Do I see Mr. Carver of Bob’s Fort?—Oh! the honour—
Mr. Carv. Don’t stir, pray—I beg—I request—I insist. I am by no means ceremonious, sir.
O’Bla. (bustling and setting two chairs) No, but I’d wish to show respect proper to him I consider the first man in the county.
Mr. Carv. (aside) Man! gentleman, he might have said.
{Mr. CARVER sits down and rests himself consequentially.