When Leary recovered, he made his way back as well as he could to the dining-room, where he found his master and the company very impatient for his return.
“What kept-you?” said Mr. Mac Carthy in an angry voice; “and where is the wine? I rung for it half an hour since.”
“The wine is in the cellar, I hope, sir,” said Jack, trembling violently; “I hope ’tis not all lost.”
“What do you mean, fool?” exclaimed Mr. Mac Carthy in a still more angry tone: “why did you not fetch some with you?”
Jack looked wildly about him, and only uttered a deep groan.
“Gentlemen,” said Mr. Mac Carthy to his guests, “this is too much. When I next see you to dinner, I hope it will be in another house, for it is impossible I can remain longer in this, where a man has no command over his own wine-cellar, and cannot get a butler to do his duty. I have long thought of moving from Ballinacarthy; and I am now determined, with the blessing of God, to leave it to-morrow. But wine shall you have, were I to go myself to the cellar for it.” So saying, he rose from the table, took the key and lantern from his half stupified servant, who regarded him with a look of vacancy, and descended the narrow stairs, already described, which led to his cellar.
When he arrived at the door, which he found open, he thought he heard a noise, as if of rats or mice scrambling over the casks, and on advancing perceived a little figure, about six inches in height, seated astride upon the pipe of the oldest port in the place, and bearing the spigot upon his shoulder. Raising the lantern, Mr. Mac Carthy contemplated the little fellow with wonder: he wore a red nightcap on his head; before him was a short leather apron, which now, from his attitude, fell rather on one side; and he had stockings of a light blue colour, so long as nearly to cover the entire of his legs; with shoes, having huge silver buckles in them, and with high heels (perhaps out of vanity to make him appear taller). His face was like a withered winter apple; and his nose, which was of a bright crimson colour, about the tip wore a delicate purple bloom, like that of a plum: yet his eyes twinkled
“like those mites
Of candied dew in moony nights—
and his mouth twitched up at one side with an arch grin.
“Ha, scoundrel!” exclaimed Mr. Mac Carthy, “have I found you at last? disturber of my cellar—what are you doing there?”