Charles OMalley, vol 1 | Page 8

into such an
infernal habit of making bulls, that I can't write sense when I want it!"
"Come, come," said O'Malley, "try again, my dear fellow. If you can't
succeed, I'm sure Billy and I have no chance."

"What have you written? Let us see," said Considine, drawing the paper
towards him, and holding it to the light. "Why, what the devil is all this?
You have made him 'drop down dead after 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 warrant with a very
lively fear."
"Why, when did you make his acquaintance?" said the Count.
"Is it possible you never heard of Boyle's committal?" said O'Malley.
"You surely must have been abroad at the time. But it's not too late to
tell it yet."
"Well, it's about two years since old Townsend brought in his
Enlistment Bill, and the whole country was scoured for all our voters,
who were scattered here and there, never anticipating another call of
the House, and supposing that the session was just over. Among others,

up came our friend Harry, here, and the night he arrived they made him
a 'Monk of the Screw,' and very soon made him forget his senatorial
dignities. On the evening after his reaching town, the bill was brought
in, and at two in the morning the division took place,--a vote was of too
much consequence not to look after it closely,--and a Castle messenger
was in waiting in Exchequer Street, who, when the debate was closing,
put Harry, with three others, into a coach, and brought them down to
the House. Unfortunately, however, they mistook their friends, voted
against the bill, and amidst the loudest cheering of the opposition, the
government party were defeated. The rage of the ministers knew no
bounds, and looks of defiance and even threats were exchanged
between the ministers and the deserters. Amidst all this poor Harry fell
fast asleep and dreamed that he was once more in Exchequer Street,
presiding among the monks, and mixing another tumbler. At length he
awoke and looked about him. The clerk was just at the instant reading
out, in his usual routine manner, a clause of the new bill, and the
remainder of the House was in dead