CHAPTER XLV
The fat and fair Widow Flanagan had, at length, given up shilly-shallying, and yielding to the fervent entreaties of Tom Durfy, had consented to name the happy day. She would have some little ways of her own about it, however, and instead of being married in the country, insisted on the nuptial knot being tied in Dublin. Thither the widow repaired with her swain to complete the stipulated time of residence within some metropolitan parish before the wedding could take place. In the meanwhile they enjoyed all the gaiety the capital presented, the time glided swiftly by, and Tom was within a day of being made a happy man, when, as he was hastening to the lodgings of the fair widow, who was waiting with her bonnet and shawl on to be escorted to the botanical gardens at Glasnevin, he was accosted by an odd-looking person of somewhat sinister aspect.
“I believe I have the honour of addressing Mister Durfy, sir?” Tom answered in the affirmative. “Thomas Durfy, Esquire, I think, sir?”
“Yes.”
“This is for you, sir,” he said, handing Tom a piece of dirty printed paper, and at the same time laying his hand on Tom's shoulder and executing a smirking sort of grin, which he meant to be the pattern of politeness, added, “You'll excuse me, sir, but I arrest you under a warrant from the High Sheriff of the city of Dublin; always sorry, sir, for a gintleman in defficulties, but it's my duty.”
“You're a bailiff, then?” said Tom.
“Sir,” said the bum,
“'Honour and shame from no condition rise;
Act well your part—there all the honour lies.'”
“I meant no offence,” said Tom. “I only meant—”