EXPLOIT THE FIRST.
HE PATRONISES PAMELA.
I.
THE HAT OF MR. PARKINS.
A very wilderness is Bernard O’Hagan, which no man could hope thoroughly to explore; a most picturesque figure in the satin-lined cloak which he loves to wear in defiance of fashion and indeed of civilised custom, singularly resembling the Merry Monarch whom a lady of his race once entertained right regally at the ancestral home of the O’Hagans. The unexpectedness of the man is one of the most marked features of his character—the one that makes his society at once delightful and alarming.
“My boy,” he will burst out, as we sit in a crowded café, “that gentleman yonder is unduly interested in my appearance.” And, stepping over to the offensive one: “Sir, you are staring at me. I suspect you of being a bum-bailiff!”
“What!” says the other, in all probability—whilst, my friend and I the observed of many observers, I tremble for the outcome of the affair—“how dare you! Damn it! how dare you!”
“Because,” replies O’Hagan, with a sort of calm ferocity, “I desire to pull your nose, and only await a fitting opportunity! You are a puppy, sir! There is my card!”
The man leaps in anger to his feet. Others arise, too, and waiters approach.
“You will regret this outrage!” says the man, pale or inflamed. “You will hear from my solicitor!”
Then O’Hagan throws back his picturesque head and laughs.
“The solicitor again!” he cries, snapping his fingers. “Always the solicitor—or the police! Is there no man alive to-day who can fight his own battles?”