But Mr. Bradley held back his hand. “I tell ye what, Artur—don’t be after vexin’ me—I’m in bad temper to-night—and I’ll stand no gammon.”
“Stand your granny!” returned the young roué; “I’ll tell ye what I’ll stand—and that’s more to the purpose. Broiled kidneys, black cockles, a gallon of heavy wet, and as much punch as you can swim in. Off with ye to Nosey McKeown’s,”—and crumpling up a pound note, he pitched it into a watchman’s face,—“See that all comes in hot; and take care that his daughter Sibby brews the punch. Now, Peter, try and look pleasant. An’t I better to you than a bad stepson?”—and he punched the commander’s ribs unceremoniously.
“Arrah—Artur, have done, will ye? What the divil druv ye here the night, good or bad?” asked the commandant.
“Well, I fancy you have named the gentleman that did it.”
“I say, what brought ye here?”
“Half a score of your scoundrels, Peter. I fell over that cursed fellow in the red jacket sleeping on the guard bed—and before I could get fairly on my pins, these villains had me fast.”
“Well, there’s nothing else for it—you must go before Mr. Jones.”
“Mr. Jones may go to Bath; but before Mr. Jones I won’t go.”
“I can’t screen ye longer,” exclaimed the governor.
“Screen me!” exclaimed the prisoner; “why what a pother you make about a little trifling civility.”