Talb. What? for I don’t keep a register of my sayings. Oh, it was something about gaming—Wheeler was flattering your taste for it, and he put me into a passion—I forget what I said. But, whatever it was, I’m sure it was well meant, and I believe it was well said.
Lord J. But you laugh at me sometimes to my face.
Talb. Would you rather I should laugh at you behind your back?
Lord J. But of all things in the world I hate to be laughed at. Listen to me, and don’t fumble in your pockets while I’m talking to you.
Talb. I’m fumbling for—oh, here it is. Now, Lord John, I once did laugh at you behind your back, and what’s droll enough, it was at your back I laughed. Here’s a caricature I drew of you—I really am sorry I did it; but ’tis best to show it to you myself.
Lord J. (aside). It is all I can do to forgive this. (After a pause, he tears the paper.) I have heard of this caricature before; but I did not expect, Talbot, that you would come and show it to me, yourself, Talbot, so handsomely, especially at such a time as this. Wheeler might well say you are a bad electioneerer.
Talb. Oh, hang it! I forgot my election, and your fifty-six friends.
Enter Rory O’Ryan.
Rory (claps Talbot on the back). Fifty-six friends, have you, Talbot? Say seven—fifty-seven, I mean; for I’ll lay you a wager, you’ve forget me; and that’s a shame for you, too; for out of the whole posse-comitatus entirely now, you have not a stauncher friend than Poor little Rory O’Ryan. And a good right he has to befriend you; for you stood by him when many who ought to have known better were hunting him down for a wild Irishman. Now that same wild Irishman has as much gratitude in him as any tame Englishman of them all. But don’t let’s be talking sintimint; for, for my share I’d not give a bogberry a bushel for sintimint, when I could get anything better.
Lord J. And pray, sir, what may a bogberry be?