me, and almost wished it over.

'Don't try to speak--pray, Sir, don't--there--there, now,' urged
Puddock, distractedly; but the injunction was unnecessary.

'Mr. Nutter,' said his second sulkily, 'I don't see anything to satisfy
your outraged honour in the curious spectacle of that gentleman sitting
on the ground making faces; we came here not to trifle, but, as I
conceive, to dispatch business, Sir.'

'To dispatch that unfortunate gentleman, you mean, and that seems pretty
well done to your hand,' said little Dr. Toole, bustling up from the
coach where his instruments, lint, and plasters were deposited. 'What's
it all, eh?--oh, Dr. _Sturk's_ been with him, eh? Oh, ho, ho, ho!' and
he laughed sarcastically, in an undertone, and shrugged, as he stooped
down and took O'Flaherty's pulse in his fingers and thumb.

'I tell you what, Mr. a--a--a--Sir,' said Nutter, with a very dangerous
look; 'I have had the honour of knowing Lieutenant Puddock since August,
1756; I won't hurt him, for I like and respect him; but, if fight I
must, I'll fight _you_, Sir!'

'Since August, 1756?' repeated Mr. Mahony, with prompt surprise. 'Pooh!
why didn't you mention that before? Why, Sir, he's an old friend, and
you _could_ not pleasantly ask him to volunteer to bare his waypon
against the boosom of his friend. No, Sir, shivalry is the handmaid of
Christian charity, and honour walks hand in hand with the human heart!'

With this noble sentiment he bowed and shook Nutter's cold, hard hand,
and then Puddock's plump little white paw.

You are not to suppose that Pat Mahoney, of Muckafubble, was a poltroon;
on the contrary, he had fought several shocking duels, and displayed a
remarkable amount of savagery and coolness; but having made a character,
he was satisfied therewith. They may talk of fighting for the fun of it,
liking it, delighting in it; don't believe a word of it. We all hate it,
and the hero is only he who hates it least.'

'Ugh, I can't stand it any longer; take me out of this, some of you,'
said O'Flaherty, wiping the damp from his red face. 'I don't think
there's ten minutes' life in me.'

'_De profundis conclamavi_,' murmured fat father Roach; 'lean upon me,
Sir.'

'And me,' said little Toole.

'For the benefit of your poor soul, my honey, just say you forgive Mr.
Nutter before you leave the field,' said the priest quite sincerely.

'Anything at all, Father Roach,' replied the sufferer; 'only don't
bother me.'

'Yo