By jabbers, I'm ready for yer there too. He's a beggarly Irish tailor, is he? Then why did ye have the likes o' him at all yer grand parties at Redcliff? Why did ye have him and his at all yer little family hops? Why could n't ye git through a forenoon, yer ould hyppercrit, widout the beggarly Irish tailor, to play billiards wid yer, or go a fishin' wid yer, or a sailin' wid yer?" "I don't choose to keep up the acquaintance, Mr. Maloney, now that you are poor." "That's the biggest lie ye iver tould in yer life, yer ould chate!" 66 Do you tell me I lie? Out of my house! Pay your own debts, you blackguard Paddy, before you come playing flush of your money to a gentleman like me." "A jintleman! Ye call yerself a jintleman, do ye,-ye onnateral ould simpleton? Ye bring born ladies inter a foul, unreputable house like this is, in a foul, unreputable street, wid a house of ill-fame on both sides of yer, and another oppersit, and then ye call yerself a jintleman. A jintleman, bedad! Ha, ha!" "You lie, Pat Maloney. My next-door neighbors are decent folks, - much decenter than you are, you foul-mouthed Paddy." "And thin ye tell me to pay my debts, do yer? Find the debt of Pat Maloney's that's unpaid, and he'll pay it double, yer unprincipled ould calumniator. If 't warrent for yer eighty yares, I'd larrup yer on the spot." "I claim no privilege of age, you cowardly tailor. That's a dodge of yours that won't serve. Come on, you ninth part of a man, if you have even that much of a man left in Come on, or I'll pound your head against the wall." you. "Ye'd knock the house down, bedad, if ye tried it. I'd like no better sport nor to polish ye off wid these two fists of mine, yer aggrawatin' superannuated ould haythen." "You shall find what my eighty years can do, you ranting Paddy. Since you won't go quietly out of the house, I'll put you out." And Pompilard began pulling up his sleeves, as if for action. Maloney was not behind him in his pugilistic demonstrations. "If ye want to have the wind knocked out of yer,” said he, “jist try it, yer quarrelsome ould bully, - gittin' up a disturbance like this at your time of life!" Here Angelica, who had been listening at the door, burst into the room, and interposed between the disputants. By the aid of some mysterious signs and winks addressed to Maloney, she succeeded in pacifying him so far that he took up his hat, and shaking his head indignantly at Pompilard, followed her out of the room. The front door was heard to open and close. Then there was a slight creaking on the basement stairs, followed by a coughing from Angelica, and a minute afterwards she re-entered the parlor. She found her father with his fists doubled, and his breast thrown back, knocking down an imaginary Irishman in dumb show. "Has that brute left the house?" he asked. "Yes, father. - What did he want?" "He has been dunning me to borrow a couple of thousand dollars of him, - the improvident old fool. He needs every cent of his money in his business. He knows it. He merely wants to put me under an obligation, knowing I may never pay him back. He can't dupe me." "If 't would gratify poor Maloney, why not humor him? said Angelica. "He feels eternally grateful to you for having made a man of him. You helped him to a fortune. He has often said he owed it to you that he was n't a sot about the streets." "If I helped him to a fortune, I showed him how to lose it, Jelly. So there we're just even. I tell you I won't get in debt again, if I can help it. You, Jelly, are the only one I've borrowed from since the last great crash." "And in borrowing from me, you merely take back your own," interposed Angelica. "I've paid everything in the way of a debt, principal and interest," said Pompilard. "And I don't want to break the charm again at my time of life. Debt is the Devil's own snare. I know it from sad experience. I've two good schemes on foot for retrieving my affairs, without having to risk much money in the operation. If you can let me have five hundred dollars, I think 't will be the only nest-egg I shall need." "Certainly, father," said Angelica; and going down-stairs into the basement, she found the persevering Maloney waiting her coming. "Mr. Maloney," said she, "let me propose a compromise. My father wants five hundred dollars of me. I have n't it to give him. But if you'll lend it on my receipt, I'll take it and be very thankful." "Make it a thousand, and I'll say yes," said Pat. "Well, I'll not haggle with you, Mr. Maloney," replied Angelica. Maloney handed her the money, and, refusing to take a receipt, seized his hat, and quitted the house by the back area, looking round suspiciously, and snuffing contemptuously at the surroundings, as he emerged into the alley-way which conducted him to one of the streets leading into the Bowery. Angelica put five hundred dollars in her port-monnaie, and handed the like amount to her sire. He thrust it into his vestpocket, brushed his hat, and arranged his choker. Mrs. Pompilard came down with the Prospectus that was to be the etymon of a new fortune. He took it, kissed wife and daughter, and issued from the house. As he passed up Lavinia Street, many a curious eye from behind curtains and blinds looked out admiringly on the imposing figure. One boy on the sidewalk remarked to another: “I say, Ike, who is that old swell as has come into our street? I've a mind to shy this dead kitten at him." "Don't do it, Peter Craig!" exclaimed Ike; "father says that man's a detective, — a feller as sees you when you think he ain't looking. We'd better mind how we call arter him again, Old blow-hard!'" CHAPTER XLIV. A DOMESTIC RECONNOISSANCE. "O Spirit of the Summer time! Bring back the roses to the dells; W. Allingham. THE HE following Wednesday, Pompilard returned rather earlier than usual from his diurnal visit to Wall Street. He brought home a printed copy of the Prospectus, and sent it up-stairs to the wounded author. Then taking from the bookcase a yellow-covered pamphlet, he composed himself in an arm-chair, and, resting his legs on an ottoman, began reading that most thrilling production of the season, "The Guerilla's Bride, or the Temptation and the Triumph, by Carrie Cameron.” Mrs. Pompilard glided into the room, and, putting her hands over his eyes from behind, said, "What's the matter, my love?" "Matter? Nothing, wife! Leave me to my novel." 66 Always of late," she replied, "when I see you with one of these sensation novels, I know that something has gone wrong with you." 66 Nonsense, you silly woman! I know what you want. It's a kiss. There! Take it and go." "You've lost money!" said Madam, receiving the kiss, then shaking her finger at him, and returning to her household tasks. She was right in her surmise. Pompilard, hopeful of Union victories on the Peninsula of Virginia, had been selling gold in expectation of a fall. There had been a large rise, and his five hundred dollars had been swallowed up in the great maw of Wall Street like a straw in Niagara. He passed the rest of that day in the house, reading his novel, or playing backgammon with the Major. The next morning, putting the Prospectus and his pride with it in his pocket, he issued forth, resolved to see what could be done in furtherance of the grand literary scheme which was to immortalize and enrich his son-in-law. Entering Broadway he walked up to Union Park, then along Fourteenth Street to the Fifth Avenue. And now, every square or two, he would pass door-plates that displayed some familiar name. Frequently he would be tempted to stop, but he passed on and on, until he came to one which bore in large black walnut letters the name CHARLTON. With this gentleman he had not had any intercourse since the termination of that great lawsuit in which they had been opposed. Charlton, having put the greater part of his property into gold just before the war, had made enormous sums by the rise in the precious metal. It was noticed in Wall Street, that he was growing fat; that he had lost his anxious, eager look. War was not such a bad thing after all. Surely he would be glad of the opportunity of subscribing for five or ten copies of the wounded Purling's great work. These considerations encouraged the credulous Pompilard to call. A respectable private carriage stood before the house, and in it sat a young lady, probably Miss Charlton, playing with a pet spaniel. Pompilard rang the door-bell, and a dapper footman in white gloves ushered him up-stairs into the library. Here Charlton sat computing his profits on the rates of exchange as given in that day's report. He rose on Pompilard's entrance, and with a profuse politeness that contrasted somewhat with his manner on previous occasions, shook hands with him, and placed him in a seat. Excessive prosperity had at last taught Charlton to temper his refusals with gracious speech. It was so much cheaper to give smooth words than solid coin! "Am delighted to see you, Mr. Pompilard!" quoth he. "How fresh and young you 're looking! Your family are all well, I trust." "All save my son-in-law, Major Purling. He, having been |