Squire Egan was as good as his word. He picked out the most suitable
horsewhip for chastising the fancied impertinence of Murtough Murphy;
and as he switched it up and down with a powerful arm, to try its
weight and pliancy, the whistling of the instrument through the air was
music to his ears, and whispered of promised joy in the flagellation of
the jocular attorney.
"We'll see who can make the sorest blister," said the squire.
"I'll back whalebone against Spanish flies any day. Will you bet,
Dick?" said he to his brother-in-law, who was a wild, helter-skelter
sort of fellow, better known over the country as Dick the Divil than
Dick Dawson.
"I'll back your bet, Ned."
"There's no fun in that, Dick, as there is nobody to take it up."
"May be Murtough will. Ask him before you thrash him: you'd better."
"As for _him_" said the squire, "I'll be bound he'll back my bet
after he gets a taste o' this;" and the horsewhip whistled as he spoke.
"I think he had better take care of his back than his bet," said Dick
as he followed the squire to the hall-door, where his horse was in
waiting for him, under the care of the renowned Andy, who little
dreamed of the extensive harvest of mischief which was ripening in
futurity, all from his sowing.
"Don't kill him quite, Ned," said Dick, as the squire mounted to his
saddle.
"Why, if I went to horsewhip a gentleman, of course I should only shake
my whip at him; but an attorney is another affair. And, as I'm sure
he'll have an action against me for assault, I think I may as well get
the worth of my money out of him, to say nothing of teaching him better
manners for the future than to play off his jokes on his employers."
With these words off he rode in search of the devoted Murtough, who was
not at home when the squire reached his house; but as he was returning
through the village, he espied him coming down the street in company
with Tom Durfy and the widow, who were laughing heartily at some joke
Murtough was telling them, which seemed to amuse him as much as his
hearers.
"I'll make him laugh at the wrong side of his mouth," thought the
squire, alighting and giving his horse to the care of one of the little
ragged boys who were idling in the street. He approached Murphy with a
very threatening aspect, and confronting him and his party so as to
produce a halt, he said, as distinctly as his rage would permit him to
speak, "You little insignificant blackguard, I'll teach you how you'll
cut your jokes on _me_ again; _I'll_ blister you, my buck!" and laying
hands on the astonished Murtough with the last word, he began a very
smart horsewhipping of the attorney. The widow screamed, Tom Durfy
swore, and Murtough roared, with some interjectional curses. At last he
escaped from the squire's grip, leaving the lappel of his coat in his
possession; and Tom Durfy interposed his person between them when he
saw an intention on the part of the flagellator to repeat his dose of
horsewhip.
"Let me at him, sir, or by----"
"Fie, fie, squire!--to horsewhip a gentleman like a cart-horse."
"A gentleman!--an attorney you mean."
"I say a gentleman, Squire Egan," cried Murtough fiercely, roused to
gallantry by the presence of a lady, and smarting under a sense of
injury and whalebone. "I'm a gentleman, sir, and demand thesatisfaction
of a gentleman. I put my honour into your hands, Mr. Durfy."
"Between his finger and thumb, you mean, for there's not a handful of
it," said the squire.
"Well, sir," replied Tom Durfy, "little or much, I'll take charge of
it. That's right, my cock," said he to Murtough, who notwithstanding
his desire to assume a warlike air, could not resist the natural
impulse of rubbing his back and shoulders which tingled with pain,
while he exclaimed, "Satisfaction! satisfaction!"
"Very well," said the squire, "you name yourself as Mr. Murphy's
friend?" added he to Durfy.
"The same, sir," said Tom. "Whom do you name as yours?"
"I suppose you know one Dick the Divil?"
"A very proper person, sir;--no better: I'll go to him directly."
The widow clung to Tom's arm, and looking tenderly at him, cried, "Oh,
Tom, Tom, take care of your precious life!"
"Bother!" said Tom.
"Ah, Squire Egan, don't be so bloodthirsty!"
"Fudge, woman!" said the squire.
"Ah, Mr. Murphy, I'm sure the squire's very sorry for beating you."
"Divil a bit," said the squire.
"There, ma'am," said Murphy, "you see he'll make no apology."
"Apology!" said Durfy, "apology for a horsewhipping, indeed! Nothing
but handing a horsewhip (which I wouldn't ask any gentleman to do), or
a shot, can settle the matter."
"Oh, Tom! Tom! Tom!" said the widow.
"Ba! ba! ba!" shouted Tom, making a crying face at her. "Arrah, woman,
don't be making a fool of yourself. Go in to the 'pothecary's, and get
something under your nose to revive you: and let _us_ mind our _own_
business."
The widow with her eyes turned up, and an exclamation to Heaven, was
retiring to M'Garry's shop, wringing her hands, when she was nearly
knocked down by M'Garry himself, who rushed from his own door, at the
same moment that an awful smash of his shop-window and the demolition
of his blue and red bottles alarmed the ears of the bystanders, while
their eyes were drawn from the late belligerent parties to a chase
which took place down the street of the apothecary, roaring "Murder!"
followed by Squire O'Grady with an enormous cudgel.
O'Grady, believing that M'Garry and the nurse-tender had combined to
serve him with a writ, determined to wreak double vengeance on the
apothecary, as the nurse had escaped him; and, notwithstanding all his
illness and the appeals of his wife, he left his bed and rode to the
village, to "break every bone in M'Garry's skin." When he entered the
shop, the pharmacopolist was much surprised, and said, with a
congratulatory grin at the great man, "Dear me, Squire O'Grady, I'm
delighted to see you."
"Are you, you scoundrel!" said the squire, making a blow of his cudgel
at him, which was fended off by an iron pestle the apothecary
fortunately had in his hand. The enraged O'Grady made a rush behind the
counter, which the apothecary nimbly jumped over, crying, "Murder!" as
he made for the door, followed by his pursuer, who gave a back-handed
slap at the window-bottles _en passant_, and produced the crash which
astonished the widow, who now joined her screams to the general hue and
cry; for an indiscriminate chase of all the ragamuffins in the town,
with barking curs and screeching children, followed the flight of
M'Garry and the pursuing squire.
"What the divil is all this about?" said Tom Durfy, laughing. "By the
powers! I suppose there's something in the weather to produce all this
fun--though it's early in the year to begin thrashing, for the harvest
isn't in yet. But, however, let us manage our little affair, now that
we're left in peace and quietness, for the blackguards are all over the
bridge after the hunt. I'll go to Dick the Divil immediately, squire,
and arrange time and place."
"There's nothing like saving time and trouble on these occasions," said
the squire. "Dick is at my house, I can arrange time and place with you
this minute, and he will be on the ground with me."
"Very well," said Tom; "where is it to be?"
"Suppose we say the cross-roads, halfway between this and Merryvale?
There's very pretty ground there, and we shall be able to get our
pistols and all that ready in the meantime between this and four
o'clock--and it will be pleasanter to have it all over before dinner."
"Certainly, squire," said Tom Durfy; "we'll be there at four. Till
then, good morning, squire;" and he and his man walked off.
The widow, in the meantime, had been left to the care of theapothecary's
boy, whose tender mercies were now, for the first time in his life,
demanded towards a fainting lady; for the poor raw country lad, having
to do with a sturdy peasantry in every-day matters, had never before
seen the capers cut by a lady who thinks it proper, and delicate, and
becoming, to display her sensibility in a swoon; and truly her sobs,
and small screeches, and little stampings and kickings, amazed young
gallipot. Smelling salts were applied;--they were rather weak, so the
widow inhaled the pleasing odour with a sigh, but did not recover. Sal
volatile was next put into requisition;--this was something stronger,
and made her wriggle on her chair, and throw her head about with sundry
"Ohs!" and "Ahs!" The boy, beginning to be alarmed at the extent of the
widow's syncope, bethought himself of assafoetida; and, taking down a
goodly bottle of that sweet-smelling stimulant, gave the widow the
benefit of the whole jar under her nose. Scarcely had the stopper been
withdrawn, when she gave a louder screech than she had yet executed,
and exclaiming "Faugh!" with an expression of the most concentrated
disgust, opened her eyes fiercely upon the offender, and shut up her
nose between her forefinger and thumb against the offence, and snuffled
forth at the astonished boy, "Get out o' that, you dirty cur! Can't you
let a lady faint in peace and quietness? Gracious Heavens! would you
smother me, you nasty brute? Oh, Tom, where are you?" and she took to
sobbing forth "Tom! Tom!" and put her handkerchief to her eyes, to hide
the tears that were _not_ there, while from behind the corner of the
cambric she kept a sharp eye on the street, and observed what was going
on. She went on acting her part very becomingly, until the moment Tom
Durfy walked off with Murphy; but then she could feign no longer, and
jumping up from her seat, with an exclamation of "The brute!" she ran
to the door, and looked down the street after them. "The savage!"
sobbed the widow; "the hardhearted monster! to abandon me here to
die--oh! to use me so--to leave me like a--like a"--(the widow was fond
of similes)--"like an old shoe--like a dirty glove--like a--like I
don't know what!" (the usual fate of similes). "Mister Durfy, I'll
punish you for this--I will!" said the widow, with an energetic
emphasis on the last word; and she marched out of the shop, boiling
over with indignation, through which nevertheless, a little bubble of
love now and then rose to the surface; and by the time she reached her
own door, love predominated, and she sighed as she laid her hand on the
knocker: "After all, if the dear fellow should be killed, what would
become of me!--oh!--and that wretch, Dick Dawson, too--_two_ of them.
The worst of these merry devils is they are always fighting."
The squire had ridden immediately homewards, and told Dick Dawson the
piece of work that was before them.
"And so he will have a shot at you, instead of an action?" said Dick.
"Well there's pluck in that: I wish he was more of a gentleman, for
your sake. It's dirty work, shooting attorneys."
"He's enough of a gentleman, Dick, to make it impossible for me to
refuse him."
"Certainly, Ned," said Dick.
"Do you know, is he anything of a shot?"
"Faith, he makes very pretty snipe shooting; but I don't know if he has
experience of the grass before breakfast."
"You must try and find out from some one on the ground; because, if the
poor divil isn't a good shot, I wouldn't like to kill him, and I'll let
him off easy--I'll give it to him in the pistol-arm, or so."
"Very well, Ned. Where are the flutes? I must look over them."
"Here," said the squire, producing a very handsome mahogany case of
Rigby's best. Dick opened the case with the utmost care, and took up
one of the pistols tenderly, handling it as delicately as if it were a
young child or a lady's hand. He clicked the lock back and forward a
few times; and, his ear not being satisfied at the music it produced,
he said he should like to examine them: "At all events they want a
touch of oil."
"Well, keep them out of the misthriss' sight, Dick, for she might be
alarmed."
"Divil a taste," says Dick; "she's a Dawson, and there never was a
Dawson yet that did not know men must be men."
"That's true, Dick. I would not mind so much if she wasn't in a delicate
situation just now, when it couldn't be expected of the woman to be so
stout; so go, like a good fellow, into your own room, and Andy will
bring you anything you want."
Five minutes after, Dick was engaged in cleaning the duelling pistols,
and Andy at his elbow, with his mouth wide open, wondering at the
interior of the locks which Dick had just taken off.
"Oh, my heavens! but that's a quare thing, Misther Dick, sir," said
Andy, going to take it up.
"Keep your fingers off it, you thief, do!" roared Dick, making a rap of
the turnscrew at Andy's knuckles.
"Shure, I'll save you the trouble o' rubbin' that, Misther Dick, if you
let me; here's the shabby leather."
"I wouldn't let your clumsy fist near it, Andy, nor your _shabby_
leather, you villain, for the world. Go get me some oil."
Andy went on his errand, and returned with a can of lamp-oil to Dick,
who swore at him for his stupidity; "The divil fly away with you!--you
never do anything right; you bring me lamp-oil for a pistol."
"Well, sure I thought lamp-oil was the right thing for burnin'."
"And who wants to burn it, you savage?"
"Aren't you going to fire it, sir?"
"Choke you, you vagabond," said Dick, who could not resist laughing,
nevertheless; "be off, and get me some sweet oil; but don't tell any
one what it's for."
Andy retired, and Dick pursued his polishing of the locks. Why he used
such a blundering fellow as Andy for a messenger might be wondered at,
only that Dick was fond of fun, and Andy's mistakes were a particular
source of amusement to him, and on all occasions when he could have
Andy in his company he made him his attendant. When the sweet oil was
produced, Dick looked about for a feather; but, not finding one,
desired Andy to fetch him a pen. Andy went on his errand, and returned,
after some delay, with an ink bottle.
"I brought you the ink, sir; but I can't find a pin."
"Confound your numskull! I didn't say a word about ink--I asked for a
pen."
"And what use would a pin be without ink, now I ax yourself, Misther
Dick?"
"I'd knock your brains out if you had any, you _omadhaun_! Go along,
and get me a feather, and make haste."
Andy went off, and having obtained a feather, returned to Dick, who
began to tip certain portions of the lock very delicately with oil.
"What's that for, Misther Dick, sir, if you plaze?"
"To make it work smooth."
"And what's that thing you're grazin' now, sir?"
"That's the tumbler."
"O Lord! a tumbler--what a quare name for it. I thought there was no
tumbler but a tumbler for punch."
"That's the tumbler you would like to be cleaning the inside of, Andy."
"Thrue for you, sir. And what's that little thing you have your hand on
now, sir?"
"That's the cock."
"Oh, dear, a cock! Is there e'er a hin in it, sir?"
"No, nor a chicken either, though there _is_ a feather."
"The one in your hand, sir, that you're grazin' it with?"
"No: but this little thing--that is called the feather-spring."
"It's the feather, I suppose, makes it let fly."
"No doubt of it, Andy."
"Well, there's some sinse in that name, then; but who'd think of sich a
thing as a tumbler and a cock in a pistle? And what's that place that
open and shuts, sir?"
"The pan."
"Well, there's sinse in that name too, bekase there's fire in the thing;
and it's as nath'ral to say pan to that as to a fryin'-pan--isn't it,
Misther Dick?"
"Oh! there was a great gunmaker lost in you, Andy," said Dick, as he
screwed on the locks, which he had regulated to his mind, and began to
examine the various departments of the pistol-case, to see that it was
properly provided. He took the instrument to cut some circles of thin
leather, and Andy again asked him for the name o' _that_ thing?
"This is called the punch, Andy."
"So there is the punch as well as the tumbler, sir."
"Ay, and very strong punch it is, you see, Andy;" and Dick, struck it
with his little mahogany mallet, and cut his patches of leather.
"And what's that for, sir?--the leather I mane."
"That's for putting round the ball."
"Is it for fear 't would hurt him too much when you shot him."
"You're a queer customer, Andy," said Dick, smiling.
"And what weeshee little balls thim is, sir."
"They are always small for duelling-pistols."
"Oh, then _thim_ is jewellin' pistles. Why, musha, Misther Dick, is it
goin' to fight a jule you are?" said Andy, looking at him with earnestness.
"No, Andy, but the master is; but don't say a word about it."
"Not a word for the world. The masther's goin' to fight! God send him
safe out iv it! amin. And who is he going to fight, Misther Dick?"
"Murphy, the attorney, Andy."
"Oh, won't the masther disgrace himself by fightin' the 'torney?"
"How dare you say such a thing of your master?"
"I ax your pard'n, Misther Dick: but sure you know what I mane. I hope
he'll shoot him."
"Why, Andy, Murtough was always very good to you, and now you wish him
to be shot."
"Sure, why wouldn't I rather have him kilt more than the masther?"
"But neither may be killed."
"Misther Dick," said Andy, lowering his voice, "wouldn't it be an
iligant thing to put two balls into the pistle instead o' one, and give
the masther a chance over the 'torney?"
"Oh, you murdherous villain!"
"Arrah! why shouldn't the masther have a chance over him!--sure he has
childre, and 'Torney Murphy has none."
"At any rate, Andy, I suppose you'd give the masther a ball additional
for every child he has, and that would make eight. So you might as well
give him a blunderbuss and slugs at once."
Dick loaded the pistol-case, having made all right, and desired Andy to
mount a horse, carry it by a back road out of the demesne, and wait at
a certain gate he named until he should be joined there by himself and
the squire, who proceeded at the appointed time to the ground.
Andy was all ready, and followed his master and Dick with great pride,
bearing the pistol-case after them to the ground, where Murphy and Tom
Durfy were ready to receive them; and a great number of spectators were
assembled, for the noise of the business had gone abroad, and the
ground was in consequence crowded.
Tom Durfy had warned Murtough Murphy, who had no experience as a pistol
man, that the squire was a capital shot, and that his only chance was
to fire as quickly as he could. "Slap at him, Morty, my boy, the minute
you get the word; and if you don't hit him itself, it will prevent his
dwelling on his aim."
Tom Durfy and Dick the Devil soon settled the preliminaries of the
ground and mode of firing, and twelve paces having been marked, both
the seconds opened their pistol-cases and prepared to load. Andy was
close to Dick all the time, kneeling beside the pistol-case, which lay
on the sod; and as Dick turned round to settle some other point on
which Tom Durfy questioned him, Andy thought he might snatch the
opportunity of giving his master "the chance" he suggested to his
second. "Sure, if Misther Dick wouldn't like to do it, that's no raison
I wouldn't," said Andy to himself, "and, by the powers! I'll pop in a
ball _onknownst_ to him." And, sure enough, Andy contrived, while the
seconds were engaged with each other, to put a ball into each pistol
before the barrel was loaded with powder, so that when Dick took up his
pistols to load, a bullet lay between the powder and the touch-hole.
Now, this must have been discovered by Dick, had he been cool: but he
and Tom Durfy had wrangled very much about the point they had been
discussing, and Dick, at no time the quietest person in the world, was
in such a rage that the pistols were loaded by him without noticing
Andy's ingenious interference, and he handed a harmless weapon to his
brother-in-law when he placed him on his ground.
The word was given. Murtough, following his friend's advice, fired
instantly--bang he went, while the squire returned but a flash in the
pan. He turned a look of reproach upon Dick, who took the pistol
silently from him, and handed him the other, having carefully looked to
the priming after the accident which happened to the first.
Durfy handed his man another pistol also; and before he left his side,
said in a whisper, "Don't forget--have the first fire."
Again the word was given. Murphy blazed away a rapid and harmless shot;
for his hurry was the squire's safety, while Andy's murderous
intentions were his salvation.
"D----n the pistol!" said the squire, throwing it down in a rage. Dick
took it up with manifest indignation, and d----d the powder.
"Your powder's damp, Ned."
"No, it's not," said the squire, "it's you who have bungled the
loading."
"Me!" said Dick, with a look of mingled rage and astonishment. "_I_
bungle the loading of pistols! _I_, that have stepped more ground and
arranged more affairs than any man in the country! Arrah, be aisy,
Ned!"
Tom Durfy now interfered, and said for the present it was no matter,
as, on the part of his friend, he begged to express himself satisfied.
"But it's very hard _we_'re not to have a shot," said Dick, poking the
touch-hole of the pistol with a pricker, which he had just taken from
the case which Andy was holding before him.
"Why, my dear Dick," said Durfy, "as Murphy has had two shots, and the
squire has not had the return of either, he declares he will not fire
at him again; and, under these circumstances, I must take my man off
the ground."
"Very well," said Dick, still poking the touch-hole, and examining the
point of the pricker as he withdrew it.
"And now Murphy wants to know, since the affair is all over and his
honour satisfied, what was your brother-in-law's motive in assaulting
him this morning, for he himself cannot conceive a cause for it."
"Oh, be _aisy_, Tom."
"'Pon my soul it's true!"
"Why, he sent him a blister--a regular apothecary's blister--instead of
some law process, by way of a joke, and Ned wouldn't stand it."
Durfy held a moment's conversation with Murphy, who now advanced to the
squire, and begged to assure him there must be some mistake in the
business, for that he had never committed the impertinence of which he
was accused.
"All I know is," said the squire, "that I got a blister, which my
messenger said you gave him."
"By virtue of my oath, squire, I never did it! I gave Andy an enclosure
of the law process."
"Then it's some mistake that vagabond has made," said the squire. "Come
here, you sir!" he shouted to Andy. Now Andy at this moment stood
trembling under the angry eye of Dick the Devil, who, having detected a
bit of lead on the point of the pricker, guessed in a moment Andy had
been at work, and the unfortunate rascal, from the furious look of
Dick, had a misgiving that he _had_ made some blunder. "Why don't you
come here when I call you?" said the squire. Andy laid down the
pistol-case, and sneaked up to the squire. "What did you do with the
letter Mr. Murphy gave you for me yesterday?"
"I brought it to your honour."
"No, you didn't," said Murphy. "You've made some mistake."
"Divil a mistake I made," answered Andy, very stoutly. "I wint home the
minit you gev it to me."
"Did you go home direct from my house to the squire's?"
"Yis, sir, I did--I went direct home, and called at Mr. M'Garry's by
the way for some physic for the childre."
"That's it!" said Murtough; "he changed my enclosure for a blister
there; and if M'Garry has only had the luck to send the bit o'
parchment to O'Grady, it will be the best joke I've heard this month of
Sundays."
"He did! he did!" shouted Tom Durfy; "for don't you remember how
O'Grady was after M'Garry this morning?"
"Sure enough," said Murtough, enjoying the double mistake. "By dad!
Andy, you've made a mistake this time that I'll forgive you."
"By the powers o' war!" roared Dick the Devil; "I won't forgive him
what he did now, though. What do you think?" said he, holding out the
pistols, and growing crimson with rage, "may I never fire another shot,
if he hasn't crammed a brace of bullets down the pistols before I
loaded them; so no wonder you burned prime, Ned."
There was a universal laugh at Dick's expense, whose pride in being
considered the most accomplished regulator of the duello was well
known.
"Oh, Dick, Dick! you're a pretty second!" was shouted by all.
Dick, stung by the laughter, and feeling keenly the ridiculous position
in which he was placed, made a rush at Andy, who, seeing the storm
brewing, gradually sneaked away from the group, and when he perceived
the sudden movement of Dick the Devil, took to his heels, with Dick
after him.
"Hurra!" cried Murphy, "a race--a race! I'll bet on Andy--five pounds
on Andy."
"Done!" said the squire: "I'll back Dick the Divil."
"Tare an' ouns!" roared Murphy, "how Andy runs! Fear's a fine spur."
"So is rage," said the squire. "Dick's hot-foot after him. Will you
double the bet?"
"Done!" said Murphy.
The infection of betting caught the bystanders, and various gages were
thrown and taken up upon the speed of the runners, who were getting
rapidly into the distance, flying over hedge and ditch with surprising
velocity, and, from the level nature of the ground, an extensive view
could not be obtained, therefore Tom Durfy, the steeple-chaser, cried,
"Mount, mount! or we'll lose the fun--into our saddles, and after
them."
Those who had steeds took the hint, and a numerous field of horsemen
joined in the pursuit of Handy Andy and Dick the Devil, who still
maintained great speed. The horsemen made for a neighbouring hill,
whence they could command a wider view; and the betting went on
briskly, varying according to the vicissitudes of the race.
"Two to one on Dick--he's closing."
"Done! Andy will wind him yet."
"Well done--there's a leap! Hurra! Dick's down! Well done, Dick!--up
again and going."
"Mind the next quickset hedge--that's a rasper, it's a wide gripe, and
the hedge is as thick as a wall--Andy'll stick in it--mind him--well
leaped, by the powers! Ha! he's sticking in the hedge--Dick'll catch
him now. No, by jingo! he's pushed his way through--there, he's going
again on the other side. Ha! ha! ha! ha! look at him--he's in tatters!
he has left half of his breeches in the hedge!"
"Dick is over now. Hurra! he has lost the skirt of his coat! Andy is
gaining on him--two to one on Andy."
"Down he goes!" was shouted as Andy's foot slipped in making a dash at
another ditch, into which he went head over heels, and Dick followed
fast, and disappeared after him.
"Ride! ride!" shouted Tom Durfy; and the horsemen put their spurs into
the flanks of their steeds, and were soon up to the scene of action.
There was Andy, rolling over and over in the muddy bottom of a ditch,
floundering in rank weeds and duck's meat, with Dick fastened on him,
pummelling away most unmercifully, but not able to kill him altogether,
for want of breath.
The horsemen, in a universal _screech_ of laughter, dismounted, and
disengaged the unfortunate Andy from the fangs of Dick the Devil, who
was dragged out of the ditch much more like a scavenger than a
gentleman.
The moment Andy got loose, away he ran again, with a rattling
"Tally-ho!" after him, and he never cried stop till he earthed himself
under his mother's bed in the parent cabin.
Murtough Murphy characteristically remarked, that the affair of the day
had taken a very whimsical turn;--"Here are you and I, squire, who went
out to shoot each other, safe and well, while one of the seconds has
come off rather worse for the wear; and a poor devil, who had nothing
to say to the matter in hand, good, bad, or indifferent, is nearly
killed."
The squire and Murtough then shook hands, and parted friends half an
hour after they had met as foes; and even Dick contrived to forget his
annoyance in an extra stoup of claret that day after dinner--filling
more than one bumper in drinking _confusion_ to Handy Andy, which
seemed a rather unnecessary malediction.