“Trifling civility!” exclaimed’ the astonished constable: “Oh, murder, murder! there’s nothing like ungratitude. Trifling civility! Och, Artur French—I have done wid ye. When you were cotched in the garret, drinkin taa with Mr. Abbot’s maid, who got ye off, Artur? When the sawyer’s arm was broke in the roohawn at Pie-corner, who got the tinker’s wife to prove your alabay, and sware she met ye wid Kitty Flanigan, in Mud Island? When—”
“Arrah, stop man: what’s the use of raking up old yarns? Peter, I always said you were a decent cove—but they swear you’re doting lately, and that you’ll never stop till ye turn Methodist. Only for the tender regard I have for yourself, I would give up your shop altogether, and take my custom across the water to Mary’s watchhouse. But I can’t forget old friendship—the more so, when I remember that your mother and mine were both born in Roscommon.”
A horse-laugh was heard from the fire-place.
“Arrah, have done wid your blarney,” said the commander, testily, “and nivir mind my mother. What charge is again ye, the night?”
“Nothing—a mere trifle; I was endeavouring to make peace.” returned Mr. French, with unblushing effrontery.
“Mighty like a whale!” observed the commander, in a side whisper. “I charge him wid a felonious assault!” exclaimed a voice from behind the door.
“Step forward, young man.” And the complainant placed himself in front of Mr. Bradley’s table.
“What’s ye’r charge?” inquired the judge. “What have ye to say agin this respectable young gentleman, who was strivin’ to bring about pace and harmony?”
“Pace and harmony!” exclaimed the complainant; “he was the worst of the whole lot, barrin’ the quaker. There wouldn’t have been a blow, but for the two of them; and the quaker—”
“The quaker’s not before this court,” said Mr. Bradley, with great dignity: and yet Mr. Bradley told a fib; for the identical Quaker was lying sound asleep upon the guard bed. “What charge do you make, young man?”