“Sartinly, Misther Murphy, we'll send for the cushions; but as for the gentlemen, they are all on the other side.”
“What other side?”
“The Honourable's voters, sure.”
“Pooh! is that all?” said Murphy,—“I don't mind that, I've no objection on that account; besides, they need not know who I am,” and he gave the landlord a knowing wink, to which the landlord as knowingly returned another.
The message to the gentlemen was delivered, and Murphy was immediately requested to join their party; this was all he wanted, and he played off his powers of diversion on the innocent citizens so successfully, that before supper was half over they thought themselves in luck to have fallen in with such a chance acquaintance. Murphy fired away jokes, repartees, anecdotes, and country gossip, to their delight; and when the eatables were disposed of, he started them on the punch-drinking tack afterwards so cleverly, that he hoped to see three parts of them tipsy before they retired to rest.
“Do you feel your knee better now, sir?” asked one of the party, of Murphy.
“Considerably, thank you; whisky punch, sir, is about the best cure for bruises or dislocations a man can take.”
“I doubt that, sir,” said a little matter-of-fact man, who had now interposed his reasonable doubts for the twentieth time during Murphy's various extravagant declarations, and the interruption only made Murphy romance the more.
“You speak of your fiery Dublin stuff, sir; but our country whisky is as mild as milk, and far more wholesome; then, sir, our fine air alone would cure half the complaints without a grain of physic.”
“I doubt that, sir!” said the little man.