“Religion be hanged, M'Slime!” said Phil, “what religion could you expect a Papist like him to have?”
“M'Murt, call in old Paddy Corrigan.”
A venerable old man, who, though nearly a hundred years old, stood actually as erect as the Apollo Belvidere himself, now entered. He was, however, but poorly clad, and had nothing else remarkable about him, with the exception of a rich wig, which would puzzle any one to know how it had got upon his head. On entering, he took off his hat as usual, and paid his salutation.
“What the devil do you mean, Corrigan?” said Phil, once more in a fluster; “what kind of respect is that in our presence?—what kind of respect is that, I say? Take off your wig, sir.”
“With great respect to you, sir,” replied Corrigan, “I have been in as jinteel company as this, and it's the first time ever I was axed to take my wig off.”
“Phil,” said Val, who really felt somewhat ashamed of this ignorant and tyrannical coxcomb, “Phil, my good boy, I think you are rather foolish—never mind him, Paddy, he is only jesting.”
“Are not you the man?” asked Solomon, “in whom our rector, Mr. Lucre, takes such a deep and Christian interest?”
“I am, sir,” returned Corrigan.
“And pray, what interest does he take in you?” said Val.
“Troth, sir,” replied Paddy, “he is very kind and very good to me. Indeed, he's the generous gentleman, and the good Christian, that doesn't forget Paddy Corrigan.”