“Yes, ma'am. What then?”
“I remember well in '98 when you were searching for rebels, you thought a man was concealed in a dairy-yard in the neighbourhood of my mother's house, major, in Stephen's Green; and you thought he was hid in a hay-rick, and ordered your sergeant to ask for the loan of a spit from my mother's kitchen to probe the haystack.”
“Oh! then, madam, your mother was loyal, I suppose.”
“Most loyal, sir.”
“Give the lady a chair,” said the major.
“Thank you, I don't want it—but, major, when you asked for the spit, my mother thought you were going to practise one of your delightfully ingenious bits of punishment, and asked the sergeant who it was you were going to roast?”
The major grew livid on the bench where he sat, at this awkward reminiscence of one of his friends, and a dead silence reigned through the crowded office. He recovered himself, however, and addressed Mrs. O'Grady in a mumbling manner, telling her she must give security to keep the peace, herself—and find friends as sureties. On asking her had she any friends to appear for her, she declared she had.
“A gentleman of the nicest honour, sir,” said the dowager, pulling her cuckoo from her pocket, and holding it up in view of the whole office.
A shout of laughter, of course, followed. The affair became at once understood in its true light; a mad old lady—a paltry coward—&c., &c. Those who know the excitability and fun of an Irish mob will not wonder that, when the story got circulated from the office to the crowd without, which it did with lightning rapidity, the old lady, on being placed in a hackney-coach which was sent for, was hailed with a chorus of “Cuckoo!” by the multitude, one half of which ran after the coach as long as they could keep pace with it, shouting forth the spring-time call, and the other half followed Furlong to the Castle, with hisses and other more articulate demonstrations of their contempt.