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[page 183:]
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WHY THE LITTLE FRENCHMAN
WEARS HIS HAND IN A SLING.
IT'S
on
my wisiting cards sure enough (and it's them that's all o' pink satin
paper)
that inny gintleman that plases may behould the intheristhing words,
"Sir
Pathrick O'Grandison, Barronit, 39 Southampton Row, Russel Square,
Parrish
o' Bloomsbury." And shud ye be wanting to diskiver who is the pink of
purliteness
quite, and the laider of the hot tun in the houl city o'London — why
it's
jist meself. And faith that same is no wonder at all at all, so be
plased
to stop curling your nose, for every inch o' the six wakes that I've
been
a gintleman, and left aff wid the bogthrothing to take up wid the
Barronissy,
it's Pathrick that's been living like a houly imperor, and gitting the
iddication and the graces. Och! and would'nt it be a blessed thing for
your sperrits if ye cud lay your two peepers jist, upon Sir Pathrick
O'Grandison,
Barronitt, when he is all riddy drissed for the hopperer, or stipping
into
the Brisky for the drive into the Hyde Park. But it's the iligant big
figgur
that I have, for the reason o' which all the ladies fall in love wid
me.
Isn't it my own swate self now that'll missure [page 184:]
sure the six fut, and the three inches more nor that in me stockings,
and
that am excadingly will proportioned all over to match? And is it
really
more than the three fut and a bit that there is, inny how, of the
little
ould furrener Frinchman that lives jist over the way, and that's a
oggling
and a goggling the houl day, (and bad luck to him,) at the purty widdy
Misthress Tracle that's my own nixt door neighbor, (God bliss her) and
most particuller frind and acquaintance? You percave the little
spalpeen
is summat down in the mouth, and wears his lift hand in a sling; and
it's
for that same thing, by yur lave, that I'm going to give you the good
rason.
The thruth of the houl matter is jist
simple
enough;
for the very first day that I com'd from Connaught, and showd my swate
little silf in the strait to the widdy, who was looking through the
windy,
it was a gone case althegither wid the heart o' the purty Misthress
Tracle.
I percaved it, ye see, all at once, and no mistake, and that's God's
thruth.
First of all it was up wid the windy in a jiffy, and thin she threw
open
her two peepers to the itmost, and thin it was a little gould spy-glass
that she clapped tight to one o' them, and divil may burn me if it
didn't
spake to me as plain as a peeper cud spake, and says it, through the
spy-glass
— "Och! the tip o' the mornin to ye, Sir Pathrick O'Grandison,
Barronitt,
mavourneen; and it's a nate gintleman that ye are, sure enough, and
it's
meself and me fortin jist that'll be at yur sarvice, dear, inny time o'
day at all at all for the asking." And it's not meself ye wud have to
be
bate in the purliteness; [page 185:] so I made her
a bow that wud have broken yur heart althegither to behould, and thin I
pulled aff me hat with a flourish, and thin I winked at her hard wid
both
eyes, as much as to say — "Thrue for you, yer a swate little crature,
Mrs.
Tracle, me darlint, and I wish I may be drownthed dead in a bog, if its
not meself, Sir Pathrick O'Grandison, Barronitt, that'll make a houl
bushel
o' the to yur leddy-ship, in the twinkling o' the eye of a Londonderry
purraty."
And it was the nixt mornin, sure
enough, jist as
I was making up me mind whither it wouldn't be the purlite thing to
sind
a bit o' writing to the widdy by way of a love-litter, when up cum'd
the
delivery sarvant wid an illigant card, and he tould me that the name on
it (for I niver cud rade the copper-plate printing on account of being
lift handed) was all about Mounseer, the Count, A Goose, Look-aisy,
Maiter-didauns,
and that the houl o' the divilish lingo was the spalpeeny long name of
the little ould furrener Frinchman as lived over the way.
And jist wid that in cum'd the little
willain
himself,
and thin he made me a broth of a bow, and thin he said he had ounly
taken
the liberty of doing me the honor, of the giving me a call, and thin he
went on to palaver at a great rate, and divil the bit did I comprehind
what he wud be afther the tilling me at all at all, excipting and
saving
that he said "pully wou, woolly wou," and tould me, among a bushel o'
lies,
bad luck to him, that he was mad for the love o' my widdy Misthress
Tracle,
and that my widdy Mrs. Tracle had a puncheon for him. [page
186:]
At the hearin of this, ye may swear,
though, I
was
as mad as a grasshopper, but I remimbered that I was Sir Pathrick
O'Grandison,
Barronitt, and that it wasn't althegither gentaal to lit the anger git
the upper hand o' the purliteness, so I made light o' the matter and
kipt
dark, and got quite sociable wid the little chap, and afther a while
what
did he do but ask me to go wid him to the widdy's, saying he wud give
me
the feshionable introduction to her leddyship.
"Is it there ye are?" said I thin to
meself —
"and
its thrue for you Pathrick that ye're the fortunnittest mortal in life.
We'll soon see now whither its your swate silf, dear, or whither its
little
Mounseer Maiterdi-dauns, that Misthress Tracle is head and ears in the
love wid."
Wid that we wint aff to the widdy's,
next door,
and
ye may well say it was an illigant place — so it was. There was a
carpet
all over the floor, and in one corner there was a forty-pinny and a
jews-harp
and the divil knows what ilse, and in another corner was a sofy — the
beautifullest
thing in all natur — and sittin on the sofy, sure enough there was the
swate little angel, Misthress Tracle.
"The tip o' the morning to ye," says
I — "Mrs.
Tracle"
— and then I made sich an iligant obaysance that it wud ha quite
althegither
bewildered the brain o' ye.
"Wully woo, pully woo, plump in the
mud," says
the
little furrenner Frinchman — "and sure enough Mrs. Tracle, says he,
that
he did — "isn't this gintleman [page 187:] here
jist
his riverence Sir Pathrick O'Grandison, Barronitt, and isn't he
althegither
and entirely the most purticular frind and acquaintance that I have in
the houl world?"
And wid that the widdy, she gits up
from the
sofy,
and makes the swatest curtchy nor iver was seen; and thin down she gits
agin like an angel; and thin, by the powers, it was that little
spalpeen
Mounseer Maiter-di-dauns that plumped his self right down by the right
side of her. Och hon! I ixpicted the two eyes o' me wud ha cum'd out of
my head on the spot, I was so dispirate mad! Howiver — "Bait who!" says
I, after a while. "Is it there ye are, Mounseer Maiter-di-dauns?" and
so
down I plumped on the lift side of her leddyship, to be aven wid the
willain.
Botheration! it wud ha done your heart good to percave the illigant
double
wink that I gived her jist thin right in the face wid both eyes.
But the little ould Frinchman he
niver beginned
to
suspict me at all at all, and disperate hard it was he made the love to
her leddyship. "Woully wou" says he — "Pully wou" says he — "Plump in
the
mud."
"That's all to no use, Mounseer Frog,
mavourneen,"
thinks I — and I talked as hard and as fast as I could all the while,
and
troth it was meself jist that divarted her leddyship complately and
intirely,
by rason of the illigant conversation that I kipt up wid her all about
the swate bogs of Connaught. And by and by she giv'd me sich a swate
smile,
from one ind of her mouth to the other, that it made me as [page
188:] bould as a pig, and I jist took hould of the ind of
her
little finger in the most dillikittest manner in natur, looking at her
all the while out o' the whites of my eyes.
And thin ounly to percave the
cuteness of the
swate
angel, for no sooner did she obsarve that I was afther the squazing of
her flipper, than she up wid it in a jiffy, and put it away behind her
back, jist as much as to say — "Now thin, Sir Pathrick O'Grandi- son,
there's
a bitther chance for ye, mavourneen, for its not althegither the
gentaal
thing to be afther the squazing of my flipper right full in the sight
of
that little furrenner Frinchman, Mounseer Maiter-didauns."
Wid that I giv'd her a big wink jist
to say —
"lit
Sir Pathrick alone for the likes o' them thricks" — and thin I wint
aisy
to work, and you'd have died wid the divarsion to behould how cliverly
I slipped my right arm betwane the back o' the sofy, and the back of
her
leddyship, and there, sure enough, I found a swate little flipper all a
waiting to say — "the tip o' the mornin to ye, Sir Pathrick
O'Grandison,
Barronit." And wasn't it meself, sure, that jist giv'd the laste little
bit of a squaze in the world, all in the way of a commincement, and not
to be too rough wid her leddyship? and och, botheration, wasn't it the
gentaalest and delikittest of all the little squazes that I got in
return?
"Blood and thunder, Sir Pathrick, mavourneen" thinks I to meself,
"faith
it's jist the mother's son of you, and nobody else at all at all,
that's
the handsommest and the fortunittest [page 189:]
young
bogthrotter that ever cum'd out of Connaught!" And wid that I giv'd the
flipper a big squaze — and a big squaze it was, by the powers, that her
leddyship giv'd to me back. But it wud ha split the seven sides of you
wid the laffin to behould, jist thin all at once, the concated
behaviour
of Mounseer Maiter-di-dauns. The likes o' rich a jabbering, and a
smirking,
and a parly-wouing as he begin'd wid her leddyship, niver was known
before
upon arth; and divil may burn me if it wasn't my own very two peepers
that
cotch'd him tipping her the wink out of one eye. Och hon! if it wasn't
meself thin that was as mad as a Kilkenny cat I shud like to be tould
who
it was!
"Let me infarm you, Mounseer
Maiter-di-dauns,"
said
I, as purlit as iver ye seed, "that it's not the gintaal thing at all
at
all, and not for the likes o' you inny how, to be after the oggling and
a goggling at her leddyship in that fashion — and jist wid that such
another
squaze as it was I giv'd her flipper, all as much as to say — "isn't it
Sir Pathrick now, my jewel, that'll be able to the proticting o' you,
my
darlint?" — and thin there cum'd another squaze back, all by way of the
answer — "Thrue for you, Sir Pathrick," it said as plain as iver a
squaze
said in the world — "Thrue for you, Sir Pathrick, mavourneen, and it's
a proper nate gintleman ye are — that God's thruth" — and wid that she
opened her two beautiful peepers till I belaved they wud ha com'd out
of
her head althegither and intirely, and she looked first as [page
190:] mad as a cat at Mounseer Frog, and thin as smiling as
all out o' doors at meself.
"Thin," says he, the willian, "Och
hon! and a
woolly-wou,
pully-wou," and thin wid that he shoved up his two shoulders, till the
divil the bit of his head was to be diskivered, and thin he let down
the
two corners of his purraty-trap, and thin not the bit more of the
satisfaction
could I git out o' the spalpeen.
Belave me, my jewel, it was Sir
Pathrick that was
unrasonable mad thin, sure enough, and the more by token that he kept
on
wid his winking and blinking at the widdy; and the widdy she kept on
wid
the squazing of my flipper, as much as to say — "At him again Sir
Pathrick
O'Grandison, mavourneen," so I jist ripped out wid a big oath, and says
I, sure enough —
"Ye little spalpeeny frog of a
bog-throtting son
of a bloody-noun!" — and jist thin what d'ye think it was that her
leddyship
did? Troth she jumped up from the sofy as if she was bit, and made aff
through the door, while I turned my head round afther her, in a
complate
bewilderment and botheration, and followed her wid me two peepers. You
percave I had a rason of my own for the knowing that she couldn't git
down
the stairs althegither and intirely — for I knew very well that I had
hould
of her hand, for divil the bit had I iver lit it go. And says I —
"Isn't it the laste little bit of a
mistake in
the
world that ye've been afther the making, yer leddyship? Come back now,
that's a darlint, and I'll give ye yur [page 191:]
flipper." But aff she wint down the stairs like a shot, and then I
turned
round to the little French furrenner. Och hon! if it wasn't his
spalpeeny
little flipper that I had hould of in my own — why thin — thin it
was'nt
— that's all.
Maybe it wasn't meself that jist died
then
outright
wid the laffin, to behould the little chap when he found out that it
wasn't
the widdy at all that he had hould of, but only Sir Pathrick
O'Grandison.
The ould divil himself niver behild such a long face as he pet on! As
for
Sir Pathrick O'Grandison, Barronitt, it wasn't for the likes of his
riverence
to be afther the minding a thrifle of a mistake. Ye may jist say,
though
— for its God's thruth — that afore I lift hould of the flipper of the
spalpeen, (which was not till afther her leddyship's futmen had kicked
us both down the stairs,) I gived it such a nate little broth of a
squaze,
as made it all up into raspberry jam.
"Wouly-wou" — says he — "pully-wou" —
says he —
"Cot
tam!" And that's jist the thruth of the rason why he
wears
his lift hand in a sling. |
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