'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.
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