f you can stand that fellow, it's no affair
of mine; but such an ungainly savage I never met,' I would say.

"To which he would reply, 'Bad enough he is, certainly; but, by Jove! when
I only think of your Hottentot, I feel grateful for what I've got.'

"Then ensued a discussion, with attack, rejoinder, charge, and
recrimination till we retired for the night, wearied with our exertions,
and not a little ashamed of ourselves at bottom for our absurd warmth and
excitement. In the morning the matter would be rigidly avoided by each
party until some chance occasion had brought it on the _tapis_, when
hostilities would be immediately renewed, and carried on with the same
vigor, to end as before.

"In this agreeable state of matters we sat one warm summer evening before
the mess-room, under the shade of a canvas awning, discussing, by way of
refrigerant, our eighth tumbler of whiskey punch. We had, as usual, been
jarring away about everything under heaven. A lately arrived post-chaise,
with an old, stiff-looking gentleman in a queue, had formed a kind of
'godsend' for debate, as to who he was, whither he was going, whether
he really had intended to spend the night there, or that he only put up
because the chaise was broken; each, as was customary, maintaining his own
opinion with an obstinacy we have often since laughed at, though, at the
time, we had few mirthful thoughts about the matter.

"As the debate waxed warm, O'Reilly asserted that he positively knew
the individual in question to be a United Irishman, travelling with
instructions from the French government; while I laughed him to scorn by
swearing that he was the rector of Tyrrell's Pass, that I knew him well,
and, moreover, that he was the worst preacher in Ireland. Singular enough
it was that all this while the disputed identity was himself standing
coolly at the inn window, with his snuff-box in his hand, leisurely
surveying us as we sat, appearing, at least, to take a very lively interest
in our debate.

"'Come, now,' said O'Reilly, 'there's only one way to conclude this, and
make you pay for your obstinacy. What will you bet that he's the rector of
Tyrrell's Pass?'

"'What odds will you take that he's Wolfe Tone?' inquired I, sneeringly.

"'Five to one against the rector,' said he, exultingly.

"'An elephant's molar to a toothpick against Wolfe Tone,' cried I.

"'Ten pounds even that I'm nearer the mark than you,' said Tom, with a
smash of his fist upon