"That—a—Egan, I think you call him."
The Squire opened his eyes; but Dick, with the ready devilment that was always about him, saw how the land lay in an instant, and making a signal to his brother-in-law, chimed in with an immediate assent to Furlong's assertion, and swore that Egan would be unseated to a certainty. "Come, sir," added Dick, "fill one bumper at least to a toast I propose. Here's 'Confusion to Egan, and success to O'Grady.'"
"Success to O'Gwady," faintly echoed Furlong, as he sipped his claret. "These Iwish are so wild—so uncultivated," continued he; "you'll see how I'll supwise them with some of my plans."
"Oh, they're poor ignorant brutes," said Dick, "that know nothing: a man of the world like you would buy and sell them."
"You see, they've no finesse: they have a certain degwee of weadiness, but no depth—no weal finesse."
"Not as much as would physic a snipe," said Dick, who swallowed a glass of claret to conceal a smile.
"What's that you say about snipes and physic?" said Furlong; "what queer things you Iwish do say."
"Oh, we've plenty o' queer fellows here," said Dick; "but you are not taking your claret."
"The twuth is, I am fatigued—vewy—and if you'd allow me, Mr. O'Gwady, I should like to go to my woom; we'll talk over business to-mowwow."
"Certainly," said the Squire, who was glad to get rid of him, for the scene was becoming too much for his gravity. So Dick Dawson lighted Furlong to his room, and after heaping civilities upon him, left him to sleep in the camp of his enemies, and then returned to the dining-room, to enjoy with the Squire the laugh they were so long obliged to repress, and to drink another bottle of claret on the strength of the joke.