"The very man I wanted," he exclaimed. "I've been hunting you the way O'Mulligan's pup hunted the fourpenny bit through the bonfire."
"What can I do for you, Mr Podgers?" I asked.
"I want a day's shooting at O'Rooney's of Ballybawn," responded Podgers.
Now, I was not intimate with Mr O'Rooney. We had met at the club; but as he was a smoking man, and as I, after a prolonged and terrific combat with a very mild cigar (what must the strong ones be!), had bidden a long farewell to the Indian weed, it is scarcely necessary to mention that, although Mr O'Rooney and myself were very frequently beneath the same roof, we very seldom encountered one another, save in a casual sort of way.
"I assure you, Mr Podgers, that I——"
"Pshaw! that's all gammon," he burst in anticipatingly. "You can do it if you like. Sure we won't kill all the game. And I have the loveliest dog that ever stood in front of a bird. I want to get a chance of showing him off. He'll do you credit."
I was anxious to oblige Podgers. He had stood by me in a police-court case once upon a time, and proved an alibi such as must have met the approval even of the immortal Mr Weller himself; so I resolved upon soliciting the required permission, and informed Podgers that I would acquaint him with the result of my application.
"That's a decent fellow. Come back to my house with me now, and I'll give you a drop of John Jameson that will make your hair curl."
Declining to have my hair curled through the instrumentality of Mr Jameson's unrivalled whisky, I wended my way towards the club, and, as luck would have it, encountered O'Rooney lounging on the steps enjoying a cigar.
After the conventional greetings, I said, "By the way, you have some capital partridge shooting at Ballybawn."