“He must not be allowed to remain there, however we manage to get him out,” said Edward; “perhaps I can help you in the affair.”
“You're always a good fellow, Ned,” said Dick, shaking his hand warmly.
Edward escaped from hearing any praise of himself by proposing they should repair at once to the sponging-house, and see how matters stood. Dick lamented he should be called away at such a moment, for he was just going to get his wine ready for the party—particularly some champagne, which he was desirous of seeing well iced; but as he could not wait to do it himself, he called Andy, to give him directions about it, and set off with Edward to the relief of Tom Durfy.
Andy was once more in service in the Egan family; for the Squire, on finding him still more closely linked by his marriage with the desperate party whose influence over Andy was to be dreaded, took advantage of Andy's disgust against the woman who had entrapped him, and offered to take him off to London instead of enlisting; and as Andy believed he would be there sufficiently out of the way of the false Bridget, he came off at once to Dublin with Dick, who was the pioneer of the party to London.
Dick gave Andy the necessary directions for icing the champagne, which he set apart and pointed out most particularly to our hero, lest he should make a mistake and perchance ice the port instead.
After Edward and Dick had gone, Andy commenced operations according to orders. He brought a large tub up-stairs containing rough ice, which excited Andy's wonder, for he never had known till now that ice was preserved for and applied to such a use, for an ice-house did not happen to be attached to any establishment in which he had served.
“Well, this is the quarest thing I ever heerd of,” said Andy. “Musha! what outlandish inventions the quolity has among them! They're not contint with wine, but they must have ice along with it—and in a tub, too!—just like pigs!—throth it's a dirty thrick, I think. Well, here goes!” said he; and Andy opened a bottle of champagne, and poured it into the tub with the ice. “How it fizzes!” said Andy, “Faix, it's almost as lively as the soda-wather that bothered me long ago. Well, I know more about things now; sure it's wondherful how a man improves with practice!”—and another bottle of champagne was emptied into the tub as he spoke. Thus, with several other complacent comments upon his own proficiency, Andy poured half-a-dozen of champagne into the tub of ice, and remarked, when he had finished his work, that he thought it would be “mighty cowld on their stomachs.”
Dick and Edward all this time were on their way to the relief of Tom Durfy, who, though he had cooled down from the boiling-pitch to which the misadventure of the morning had raised him, was still simmering, with his elbows planted on the rickety table in Mr. Goggins' “bower,” and his chin resting on his clenched hands. It was the very state of mind in which Tom was most dangerous.
At the other side of the table sat James Reddy, intently employed in writing; his pursed mouth and knitted brows bespoke a labouring state of thought, and the various crossings, interlinings, and blottings gave additional evidence of the same, while now and then a rush at a line which was knocked off in a hurry, with slashing dashes of the pen, and fierce after-crossings of t's, and determined dottings of i's, declared some thought suddenly seized, and executed with bitter triumph.
“You seem very happy in yourself in what you are writing,” said Tom. “What is it? Is it another epithalamium?”