“Indeed!” said the writer, turning round.
“What!” exclaimed Tom Durfy, in surprise; “James Reddy!”
“Even so,” said James, with a sentimental air:
“'The paths of glory lead but to the grave.'
Literature is a bad trade, my dear Tom!—'tis an ungrateful world—men of the highest aspirations may lie in gaol for all the world cares; not that you come within the pale of the worthless ones; this is good-natured of you to come and see a friend in trouble. You deserve, my dear Tom, that you should have been uppermost in my thoughts; for here is a note I have just written to you, enclosing a copy of verses to you on your marriage—in short, it is an epithalamium.”
“That's what I told you, sir,” said Goggins to Tom.
“May the divil burn you and your epithalamium!” said Tom Durfy, stamping round the little room.
James Reddy stared in wonder, and Goggins roared, laughing.
“A pretty compliment you've paid me, Mister Reddy, this fine morning,” said Tom; “you tell a bailiff where I live, that you may send your infernal verses to me, and you get me arrested.”
“Oh, murder!” exclaimed James. “I'm very sorry, my dear Tom; but, at the same time, 't is a capital incident! How it would work up in a farce!”