“Why,” said the secretary, “I placed the papers all arranged in proper order before you.”
“Yes, sir; I suppose you did; but who the devil can keep anything or anybody in order, in such a Babel as this? Beevor, I'll thank you to postpone the singing of your squib for the election; or take to the street when our business is over, and give it to the crowd.”
“You be d——d, Spavin,” replied Beevor;
“I'll finish it, if the devil was at the back door.”
“Darcy,” said Deaker, addressing a thin, red-faced man beside him, “I saw a pretty bit of goods in Castle Cumber market on Thursday.”
“Why, Deaker,” replied the other, “is it possible that with one foot and more than half your body in the grave, and your shadow in h—l, you sinner, you have not yet given up your profligacy.”
“Eat, drink, and be merry, Tom, for tomorrow we die; but about this pretty bit of goods—I tried to price her, but it wouldn't do; and when I pressed hard, what do you think of the little tit, but put herself under the protection of old Priest Roche, and told him I had insulted her.”
“Who is she, Deaker?” inquired a young fellow with a good deal of libertine interest.
“Ah, Bob,” replied Deaker, laughing; “there you are, one of the holy triad. Here, Baronet—did you ever hear what Mad Jolly-block, their father, the drinking parson of Mount Carnal, as some one christened his residence, said of his three sons?—and that chap there's one of them.”
“No; let us hear it.”