Here he was interrupted by a frightful grin and a '_ha!_' from
O'Flaherty, who darted to the door, and seizing his little withered
French servant, who was entering, swung him about the room by his coat
collar.
'So, Sorr, you've been prating again, have you, you desateful, idle old
dhrunken miscreant; you did it on purpose, you blundherin' old hyena;
it's the third jewel you got your masther into; and if I lose my life,
divil a penny iv your wages ye'll ever get--that's one comfort. Yes,
Sorr! this is the third time you have caused me to brew my hands in
human blood; I dono' if it's malice, or only blundherin'. Oh!' he cried,
with a still fiercer shake, 'it's I that wishes I could be sure 'twas
malice, I'd skiver you, heels and elbows, on my sword, and roast you
alive on that fire. Is not it a hard thing, my darlin' Puddock, I can't
find out.' He was still holding the little valet by the collar, and
stretching out his right hand to Puddock. 'But I am always the sport of
misfortunes--small and great. If there was an ould woman to be handed in
to supper--or a man to be murthered by mistake--or an ugly girl to be
danced with, whose turn was it, ever and always to do the business, but
poor Hyacinth O'Flaherty's--(tears).
Pages:
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128