“I thought, before now,” returned the fosterer, with a sigh, “that something would have turned up—but I’m afraid, copteeine, we settled in the wrong quarter of the town for any thing but love, drink, and fighting.”
“Feaks,” said the ratcatcher, “and I’m pretty nearly of the same opinion. Mark, jewel—what if we step over to the other side of the city—and may be we might hear of something that one could turn his hand to?”
“It’s too late this evening,” replied the fosterer.
“Not at all, Mark—it’s scarcely gone eight.”
“But Shemus, the truth is, I have a bit of an engagement.”
“Where, and what to do?” inquired the ratcatcher, suspiciously.
“Why,” said the fosterer, “just as they sodded Mrs. Malone, a girl slipped this letter into my hand.”
“What is it about?”
“Nothing, but an invitation to tea.”
“Taa!” ejaculated the captain, horror-struck. “If ye take to taa-drinkin’, Hector, avourneeine, its over with ye! What destroyed Dick Macknamara but these accursed taa-parties? May the devil smother the first inventer of the same!—And where are ye invited to?” The fosterer, instead of answering the inquiry, presented the billet he had received in the grave-yard to the honest ratcatcher, who, with some difficulty having managed to decypher the writing, read the contents, which were as follow:—