[Paddy O’Connell apologises for his silence.]
The Dormy House, Portmarnock,
August 3d, 1905.
Dear Harry,--I should have told you before that you did wisely to
leave Paris, and, please God, to see that “iligant faymale” no more.
’Tis many a man that goes to the devil when he might have gone any
other road for the asking of a cheap ticket--and you, I am glad to
see, are now restored to your senses and safely back in the land of
the Sassenach, where I wish you much prosperity. You have wits of your
own, man, and a lively presence. Let me implore you to use them in
some honorable occupation, if it is only to spite that long-legged
beggar of a parson, who would drive the very saints out of heaven
should he by any chance arrive in the neighbourhood of that highly
praised locality.
Meanwhile, Harry, I am waiting for your news of Mimi. What a droll
little witch she was to be sure--and, man, ’tis lucky for ye that I am
your friend, or the Lord knows where she would have landed me. Seek
her out by all means and restore her to civilisation. Ye’ll never need
to be ashamed of her in any company. There are women who are born to
be the light of men’s lives; and if ever I saw one of the kind, the
little lady whom Greuze should have painted is one of the company.
Find her, I say, and play a gentleman’s part towards her. You’ll never
regret it, my boy.
I am writing you but a brief letter, for the golfers here have been
playing games upon this old bird and ruffling his plumage excessively.
Yesterday, young Willie Jackson made me a bet of a sovereign that he’d
drive a ball off the face of his watch, and I took him immediately.
Well, he goes out to the tee as cool as a martyr at the stake, pops
his watch down on the sand, sticks a ball on the top of it, and
smashes the whole lot to blazes. You could have heard me laughing two
holes off as I paid the money and chaffed him.
“’Tis to the watchmaker ye’ll be taking that same,” says I, “and
asking him what’s wrong with the works?”--for there wasn’t a ha’p’orth
of the watch left, not enough to put in a teaspoon. To which he
answered, as impudent as anything:
“I think not, Paddy; it was a penny watch I bought in Dublin three
days ago.”
Ye may think that I didn’t show my nose in the club-house any more
that day, Henry. And, as if this wasn’t enough, young Philpots
persuaded me to play him with one of those pneumatic balls to-day, and
a fine game he had with me. The harder I hit it--and you know that
driving is my pride, being able to outdrive any man in Ireland when I
hit one--the harder I hit it the shorter, so to speak, it went, until
some of my finest brassies weren’t travelling twenty yards, and my
cleeks not ten.
“Be hanged to the ball!” says I at last, “I believe it’s bewitched.”
“Oh, come,” says young Philpots, “nothing of the kind Paddy; ’tis your
precious bad driving. Now, what did you drink with your dinner last
night?”
“Not more than half a pint of whisky, and perhaps not so much.”
“Then your eyesight must be going, Paddy. I’d see a doctor if I were
you when I got back to town.”
“There’s no better eyes in Ireland,” says I; and I picked the ball up
and put it in my pocket. After that I knocked young Philpots all to
blazes, so I knew it was the ball, and would have said so if the
Archangel Gabriel himself had come along and denied me. When I got
back to the club-house, I took young Martin, the pro., aside, and
asked him a few questions.
“Why did ye sell me such a thing of a ball as that, Martin?” I asked
him.
He professed great astonishment.
“There’s nay a better baa’ made,” says he.
“Will ye play a round with it yourself, Martin?”
“Ay, when there’s wind in it.”
“Wind!” cried I, beginning to understand.
“True,” says he, “when there’s wind in it; but no’ when a gentleman
has pricked her wi’ a needle before the other gentleman ganged oot.”
Henry--I saw it in a moment! That young devil of a Philpots had let
all the air out of the ball before I began to play with it. The
story’s all over the place--I’ll never show my face here for a month,
unless it be to pull the noses of the pair of them for the pleasure of
saying good-bye to such jovial companions. My dear Harry, yours as of
old,
Paddy O’Connell.