dinner of a lingering illness
brought on by the debate of yesterday.'"

"Oh, impossible!"

"Well, read it yourself; there it is. And, as if to make the thing less
credible, you talk of his 'Bill for the Better Recovery of Small Debts.'
I'm sure, O'Malley, your last moments were not employed in that manner."

"Come, now," said Sir Harry, "I'll set all to rights with a postscript.
'Any one who questions the above statement is politely requested to call on
Mr. Considine, 16 Kildare Street, who will feel happy to afford him every
satisfaction upon Mr. O'Malley's decease, or upon miscellaneous matters."

"Worse and worse," said O'Malley. "Killing another man will never persuade
the world that I'm dead."

"But we'll wake you, and have a glorious funeral."

"And if any man doubt the statement, I'll call him out," said the Count.

"Or, better still," said Sir Harry, "O'Malley has his action at law for
defamation."

"I see I'll never get down to Galway at this rate," said O'Malley; "and as
the new election takes place on Tuesday week, time presses. There are more
writs flying after me this instant than for all the government boroughs."

"And there will be fewer returns, I fear," said Sir Harry.

"Who is the chief creditor?" asked the Count.

"Old Stapleton, the attorney in Fleet Street, has most of the mortgages."

"Nothing to be done with him in this way?" said Considine, balancing the
corkscrew like a hair trigger.

"No chance of it."

"May be," said Sir Harry, "he might come to terms if I were to call and
say, 'You are anxious to close accounts, as your death has just taken
place.' You know what I mean."

"I fear so should he, were you to say so. No, no, Boyle, just try a plain,
straightforward paragraph about my death; we'll have it in Falkner's paper
to-morrow. On Friday the funeral can take place, and, with the blessing
o' God, I'll come to life on Saturday at Athlone, in time to canvass the
market."

"I think it wouldn't be bad if your ghost were to appear to old Timins the
tanner, in Naas, on your way down. You know he arrested you once before."

"I prefer a night's sleep," said O'Malley. "But come, finish the squib for
the paper."

"Stay a little," said Sir Harry, musing; "it just strikes me that if ever
the matter gets out I may be in some confounded scrape. Who knows if it is
not a breach of privilege to report the death of a member? And to tell you
truth, I dread the Sergeant and the Speaker's wa