“And pray, sir, what right have you to judge whether my servant came from Ireland or no? I want to speak with your employer, Mr. Leach. I'll thank ye go fetch him.”
“Where's your papa, Tommy?” asks the colonel of the child, a smutty little wretch in a frock.
Instead of answering, the child begins to cry; the doctor's appearance had no doubt frightened the poor little imp.
“Send that squalling little brat about his business, and do what I bid ye, sir,” says the doctor.
“I must finish the picture first for Tommy,” says the colonel, laughing. “Here, Tommy, will you have your Pandour with whiskers or without?”
“Whisters,” says Tommy, quite intent on the picture.
“Who the devil are ye, sir?” cries the doctor; “are ye a printer's man or are ye not?” he pronounced it like naught.
“Your reverence needn't raise the devil to ask who I am,” says Colonel Esmond. “Did you ever hear of Dr. Faustus, little Tommy? or Friar Bacon, who invented gunpowder, and set the Thames on fire?”
Mr. Swift turned quite red, almost purple. “I did not intend any offence, sir,” says he.
“I daresay, sir, you offended without meaning,” says the other drily.