“What do you think o' that, Goggins?” inquired one bailiff from the other; “you're a judge o' po'thry.”
“It's sevare,” answered Goggins, authoritatively, “but coorse, I wish you'd brile the rashers; I begin to feel the calls o' nature, as the poet says.”
This Mister Goggins was a character in his way. He had the greatest longing to be thought a poet, put execrable couplets together sometimes, and always talked as fine as he could; and his mixture of sentimentality, with a large stock of blackguardism, produced a strange jumble.
“The people here thought it nate, sir,” said Larry.
“Oh, very well for the country!” said Goggins; “but 't wouldn't do for town.”
“Misther Coggings knows best,” said the bailiff who first spoke, “for he's a pote himself, and writes in the newspapers.”
“Oh, indeed!” said Larry.
“Yes,” said Goggins, “sometimes I throw off little things for the newspapers. There's a friend of mine you see, a gentleman connected with the press, who is often in defficulties, and I give him a hint to keep out o' the way when he's in trouble, and he swears I've a genus for the muses, and encourages me—”
“Humph!” says Larry.
“And puts my things in the paper, when he gets the editor's back turned, for the editor is a consaited chap that likes no one's po'thry but his own; but never mind—if I ever get a writ against that chap, won't I sarve it!”