Why, I tell you, upon my
honour, Mrs. Rebecca Chattesworth's black boy, only t'other day,
swallowed a musket bullet twice the size, ha! ha!--he did--and I set him
to rights in no time with a little powder.'
'Gunpowder?' said Devereux. 'And what of O'Flaherty? I'm told he was
going to shoot poor Miles O'More.'
'Ha, ha! hey? Well, I don't think either remembered in the morning what
they quarrelled about,' replied Toole; 'so it went off in smoke, Sir.'
'Well, and how is Miles?'
'Why, ha, ha! he's back again, with a bill, as usual, and a horse to
sell--a good one--the black one, don't you remember? He wants five and
thirty guineas; 'tisn't worth two pounds ten. "Do you know anyone who
wants him? I would not mind taking a bill, with a couple of good names
upon it," says he. Upon my credit I believe he thought I'd buy him
myself. "Well," says I, "I think I do know a fellow that would give you
his value, and pay you cash besides," says I. 'Twas as good as a play to
see his face. "Who is he?" says he, taking me close by the arm. "The
knacker," says I. 'Twas a bite for Miles; hey? ha, ha, ha!'
'And is it true old Tresham's going to join our club at last?'
'He! hang him! he's like a brute beast, and never drinks but when he's
dry, and then small beer.
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