“Papa, do see that Colonel Bowdler takes his wine,” almost shrieked Matilda.
O agony! he was about informing their patrician guests that his rival had been a—tailor!
“Well, see here, Mickey, and see here, Mary, and see here, Matty,” said Mr. Rooney, rising, “I’ll give ye all a toast.”
“Oh! toasts are vulgar; are they not, Colonel Bowdler?” interposed Matilda.
“Well, ahem! except upon special occasions they are not in vogue,” replied that gallant warrior.
“Well this is a special occasion, and a very special occasion”—Hear! hear! from the host—“and wan that calls for particular mention; an’ it’s health, long life, and happiness to Mrs. Tim Rooney that is for to be. Ye must all drink it on yer legs.”
Anything to humor Tim, now that the Bowdlers and Beamishes tolerated him. So with much laughing on the part of the gentlemen, and much giggling on the part of the ladies, the toast was drunk with all honor.
“And now, Mick, Mary and Matty,” cried Tim, “I may as well let the cat out of the bag. Me and Miss Tibie is to be married on Thursday.”
Had a bombshell fallen in their midst greater consternation could not have shown itself upon the countenances of the Casey family.
“Yer not in airnest, Tim,” said Casey, endeavoring to smile a sickly smile.