Through the open bow window of the great oak parlour of the inn was
heard the mighty voice of the president, who was now in the thick of his
political toasts.
'Odds bud!' lisped little Puddock, 'what a stentorian voice!'
'Considering it issues from a tailor!' acquiesced Devereux, who thought
he recognised the accents, and hated tailors, who plagued him with long
bills and dangerous menaces.
'May the friends of the Marquis of Kildare be ever blessed with the
tailor's thimble,' declaimed the portentous toast master. 'May the
needle of distress be ever pointed at all mock patriots; and a hot
needle and a burning thread to all sewers of sedition!' and then came an
applauding roar.
'And may you ride into town on your own goose, with a hot needle behind
you, you roaring pigmy!' added Devereux.
'The Irish cooks that can't relish French sauce!' enunciated the same
grand voice, that floated, mellowed, over the field.
'Sauce, indeed!' said Puddock, with an indignant lisp, as Cluffe, having
joined them, they set forward together; 'I saw some of them going in,
Sir, and to look at their vulgar, unthinking countenances, you'd say
they had not capacity to distinguish between the taste of a quail and a
goose; but, by Jove! Sir, they have a dinner.
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