“Well, my dear Durfy, if you owe any more money, take a real friend's advice, and tell your pretty good-hearted widow the whole amount of your debts before you marry her.”
“My dear O'Connor,” said Tom, “the money you've lent me now is all I owe in the world; 't was a tailor's bill, and I quite forgot it. You know, no one ever thinks of a tailor's bill. Debts, indeed!” added Tom, with surprise; “my dear fellow, I never could be much in debt, for the devil a one would trust me.”
“An excellent reason for your unencumbered state,” said Edward, “and I hope you pardon me.”
“Pardon!” exclaimed Tom, “I esteem you for your kind and manly frankness.”
In the course of their progress towards Dick's lodgings, Edward reverted to James Reddy's wretched condition, and found it was but some petty debt for which he was arrested. He lamented, in common with Dick and Tom, the infatuation which made him desert a duty he could profitably perform by assisting his father in his farming concerns, to pursue a literary path, which could never be any other to him than one of thorns.
As Edward had engaged to meet Gusty in an hour, he parted from his companions and pursued his course alone. But, instead of proceeding immediately homeward, he retraced his steps to the den of the bailiff and gave a quiet tap at the door. Mister Goggins himself answered to the knock, and began a loud and florid welcome to Edward, who stopped his career of eloquence by laying a finger on his lip in token of silence. A few words sufficed to explain the motive of his visit. He wished to ascertain the sum for which the gentleman up-stairs was detained. The bailiff informed him; and the money necessary to procure the captive's liberty was placed in his hand.
The bailiff cast one of his melodramatic glances at Edward, and said, “Didn't I tell you, sir, this was the place for calling out the noblest feelings of human nature?”
“Can you oblige me with writing materials?” said Edward.
“I can, sir,” said Goggins, proudly, “and with other materials too, if you like—and 'pon my honour, I'll be proud to drink your health, for you're a raal gintleman.” [Footnote: The name given in Ireland to the necessary materials for the compounding of whisky-punch.]
Edward, in the civilest manner, declined the offer, and wrote, or rather tried to write, the following note, with a pen like a skewer, ink something thicker than mud, and on whity-brown paper:—