When Mr. Pat Mahony saw occasion for playing the gentleman,
he certainly did come out remarkably strong in the
part. It was done in a noble, florid, glowing
style, according to his private ideal of the complete
fine gentleman. Such bows, such pointing of the
toes, such graceful flourishes of the three-cocked
hat—such immensely engaging smiles and
wonderful by-play, such an apparition, in short, of
perfect elegance-valour, and courtesy, were never
seen before in the front parlour of the Phoenix.
‘Mr. Mahony, by jingo!’ ejaculated Toole,
in an accent of thankfulness amounting nearly to rapture.
Nutter seemed relieved, too, and advanced to be presented
to the man who, instinct told him, was to be his friend.
Cluffe, a man of fashion of the military school, eyed
the elegant stranger with undisguised disgust and
wonder, and Devereux with that sub-acid smile with
which men will sometimes quietly relish absurdity.
Mr. Mahony, ‘discoursin’ a country neighbour
outside the half-way-house at Muckafubble, or enjoying
an easy tete-a-tete with Father Roach, was
a very inferior person, indeed, to Patrick Mahony,
Esq., the full-blown diplomatist and pink of gentility
astonishing the front parlour of the Phoenix.
There, Mr. Mahony’s periods were fluent
and florid, and the words chosen occasionally rather
for their grandeur and melody than for their exact
connexion with the context or bearing upon his meaning.
The consequence was a certain gorgeous haziness and
bewilderment, which made the task of translating his
harangues rather troublesome and conjectural.
Having effected the introduction, and made known the
object of his visit, Nutter and he withdrew to a small
chamber behind the bar, where Nutter, returning some
of his bows, and having listened without deriving
any very clear ideas to two consecutive addresses from
his companion, took the matter in hand himself, and
said he—
’I beg, Sir, to relieve you at once from the
trouble of trying to arrange this affair amicably.
I have been grossly insulted, he’s not going
to apologise, and nothing but a meeting will satisfy
me. He’s a mere murderer. I have not
the faintest notion why he wants to kill me; but being
reduced to this situation, I hold myself obliged, if
I can, to rid the town of him finally.’
‘Shake hands, Sir,’ cried Mahony, forgetting
his rhetoric in his enthusiasm; ‘be the hole
in the wall, Sir, I honour you.’
THE DEAD SECRET, SHOWING HOW THE FIREWORKER PROVED
TO PUDDOCK THAT NUTTER HAD SPIED OUT THE NAKEDNESS
OF THE LAND.
When Puddock, having taken a short turn or two in
the air, by way of tranquillising his mind, mounted
his lodging stairs, he found Lieutenant O’Flaherty,
not at all more sober than he had last seen him, in
the front drawing-room, which apartment was richly
perfumed with powerful exhalations of rum punch.
