‘No great wonder in that,’ said O’Grady, ‘seeing that there’s so little between to stop it.’
It was this worthy, who being at a public dinner shortly after he got his place, had his health proposed by a waggish guest.
‘I will give you a toast,’ he said: ‘The Honourable —— ——, and long may he continue indifferently to administer justice.’ The health was drunk with much merriment, the object of it never perceiving what caused the fun.
Lord Guillamore could tell a story with inimitable humour. He used to vary his voice according to the speakers, and act as it were the scene he was describing, in a way infinitely diverting. Very droll was his mimicry of a dialogue between the guard of the mail and a mincing old lady with whom he once travelled from Cork to Dublin, in the old coaching days.
The coach had stopped to change horses, and the guard, a big red-faced jolly man, beaming with good-humour and civility, came bustling up to the window to see if the ‘insides’ wanted anything.
‘Guard!’ whispered the old lady.
‘Well, ma’am, what can I do for you?’
‘Could you’—in a faint voice—‘could you get me a glass of water?’
‘To be sure, ma’am; with all the pleasure in life.’
‘And guard!’—still fainter—‘I’d—hem—I’d—a—like it hot.’