al of the choicest
patterns of delf. We were not of the silver-fork school of poetry, but
steel is not to be despised. If the table was somewhat rickety, the
inequality in the legs was supplied by clapping a volume of Vesey under
the short one. As for the chairs--but why weary about details? Chairs
being made to be sat upon, it is sufficient to say that they answered
their purposes; and whether they had backs or not--whether they were
cane-bottomed, or hair-bottomed, or rush-bottomed, is nothing to the
present inquiry.

Jack's habits of discipline made him punctual, and dinner was on the
table in less than three minutes after five. Down we sate, hungry as
hunters and eager for the prey.

"Is there a parson in company?" said Jack Ginger, from the head of the
table.

"No," responded I, from the foot.

"Then, thank God," said Jack, and proceeded, after this pious grace, to
distribute the cod's head and shoulders to the hungry multitude.

CHAPTER II.

HOW WE DINED AT JACK GINGER'S.

The history of that cod's head and shoulders would occupy but little
space to write. Its flakes, like the snow-flakes on a river, were for
one moment bright, then gone for ever; it perished unpitiably. "Bring
hither," said Jack, with a firm voice, "the leg of pork." It appeared,
but soon to disappear again. Not a man of the company but showed his
abhorrence of the Judaical practice of abstaining from the flesh of
swine. Equally clear in a few moments was it that we were truly British
in our devotion to beef. The sirloin was impartially destroyed on both
sides, upper and under. Dire was the clatter of the knives, but deep the
silence of the guests. Jerry Gallagher, Jack's valet-de-chambre,
footman, cook, clerk, shoeblack, aide-de-camp, scout, confidant,
dun-chaser, bum-defyer, and many other offices _in commendam_,
toiled like a hero. He covered himself with glory and gravy every
moment. In a short time a vociferation arose for fluid, and the
half-and-half--Whitbread quartered upon Chamyton--beautiful
heraldry!--was inhaled with the most savage satisfaction.

"The pleasure of a glass of wine with you, Bob Burke," said Joe
Macgillicuddy, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"With pleasure, Joe," replied Bob. "What wine do you choose? You may as
well say port, for there is no other; but attention to manners always
becomes a gentleman."

"Port, then, if you please," cried Joe, "as the ladies of Limerick say,
when a man looks