The Mulligan.--Bht hwhat, ye goggling, bow-windowed jackass? Go get the
wine, and we'll dthrink it together, my old buck.
Mr. Perkins.--My name, sir, is PERKINS.
The Mulligan.--Well, that rhymes with jerkins, my man of firkins; so
don't let us have any more shirkings and lurkings, Mr. Perkins.
Mr. Perkins (with apoplectic energy).--Sir, I am the master of this
house; and I order you to quit it. I'll not be insulted, sir. I'll send
for a policeman, sir. What do you mean, Mr. Titmarsh, sir, by bringing
this--this beast into my house, sir?
At this, with a scream like that of a Hyrcanian tiger, Mulligan of the
hundred battles sprang forward at his prey; but we were beforehand with
him. Mr. Gregory, Mr. Grundsell, Sir Giles Bacon's large man, the young
gentlemen, and myself, rushed simultaneously upon the tipsy chieftain,
and confined him. The doctors of divinity looked on with perfect
indifference. That Mr. Perkins did not go off in a fit is a wonder. He
was led away heaving and snorting frightfully.
Somebody smashed Mulligan's hat over his eyes, and I led him forth into
the silent morning. The chirrup of the birds, the freshness of the rosy
air, and a penn'orth of coffee that I got for him at a stall in the
Regent Circus, revived him somewhat. When I quitted him, he was not
angry but sad. He was desirous, it is true, of avenging the wrongs of
Erin in battle line; he wished also to share the grave of Sarsfield and
Hugh O'Neill; but he was sure that Miss Perkins, as well as Miss Little,
was desperately in love with him; and I left him on a doorstep in tears.
"Is it best to be laughing-mad, or crying-mad, in the world?" says I
moodily, coming into my street. Betsy the maid was already up and at
work, on her knees, scouring the steps, and cheerfully beginning her
honest daily labor.