(_To Lord John._) Your lordship will remember your lordship's promise?

_Lord J._ I do not usually forget my promises, sir; and therefore need not to be reminded of them.

_Wheel._ I beg pardon--I beg ten thousand pardons, my lord.

_Burs._ (_taking him by the arm_). Come on, man, and don't stand begging pardon there, or I'll leave you.

_Wheel._ (_to Burs._). I beg pardon, Bursal--I beg pardon, ten thousand times.

(_Exeunt._)

MANENT LORD JOHN and RORY O'RYAN.

_Rory._ Wheugh!--Now put the case. If I was going to be hanged, for the life of me I couldn't be after begging so many pardons for nothing at all. But many men, many minds--(_Hums._) True game to the last! No Wheeler for me. Oh, murder! I forgot, I was nigh letting the cat out o'

the bag again.

_Lord J._ You had something to say to me, sir? I wait till your recollection returns.

_Rory._ 'Faith, and that's very kind of you; and if you had always done so, you would never have been offended with me, my lord.

_Lord J._ You are mistaken, Mr. O'Ryan, if you think that you did or could offend me.

_Rory._ Mistaken was I, then, sure enough; but we are all liable to mistakes, and should forget and forgive one another; that's the way to go through.

_Lord J._ You will go through the world your own way, Mr. O'Ryan, and allow me to go through it my way.

_Rory._ Very fair--fair enough--then we shan't cross. But now, to come to the point. I don't like to be making disagreeable retrospects, if I could any way avoid it; nor to be going about the bush, especially at this time o' day; when, as Mr. Finsbury's come, we've not so much time to lose as we had. Is there any truth, then, my lord, in the report that is going about this hour past, that you have gone in a huff and given your promise there to that sneaking Wheeler to vote for him now?

_Lord J._ In answer to your question, sir, I am to inform you that I _have_ promised Mr. Wheeler to vote for him.

_Rory._ In a huff?--Ay, now, there it is!--Well, when a man's _mad_, to be sure, he's mad--and that's all that can be said about it. And I know, if I had been _mad_ myself, I might have done a foolish thing as well as another. But now, my lord, that you are not mad----

_Lord J._ I protest, sir, I cannot understand you. In one word, sir, I'm neither mad nor a fool!--Your most obedient (_going, angrily_).

_Rory_ (_holding him_). Take care, now; you are going mad with me again.

But phoo! I like you the better for being mad. I'm very often mad myself, and I would not give a potato for one that had never been mad in his life.

_Lord J._ (_aside_). He'll not be quiet till he makes me knock him down.

_Rory._ Agh! agh! agh!--I begin to guess whereabouts I am at last.

_Mad_, in your country, I take it, means fit for Bedlam; but with us in Ireland, now, 'tis no such thing; it means nothing in life but the being in a pa.s.sion. Well, one comfort is, my lord, as you're a bit of a scholar, we have the Latin proverb in our favour--'_Ira furor brevis est_' (Anger is short madness). The shorter the better, I think. So, my lord, to put an end to whatever of the kind you may have felt against poor Talbot, I'll a.s.sure you he's as innocent o' that unfortunate song as the babe unborn.

_Lord J._ It is rather late for Mr. Talbot to make apologies to me.

_Rory._ He make apologies! Not he, 'faith; he'd send me to Coventry, or maybe to a worse place, did he but know I was condescending to make this bit of explanation, unknown to him. But, upon my conscience, I've a regard for you both, and don't like to see you go together by the ears.

Now, look you, my lord. By this book, and all the books that were ever shut and opened, he never saw or heard of that unlucky song of mine till I came out with it this morning.

_Lord J._ But you told me this morning that it was he who wrote it.

_Rory._ For that I take shame to myself, as it turned out; but it was only a _white_ lie to s_a_rve a friend, and make him cut a dash with a new song at election time. But I've done for ever with white lies.

_Lord J._ (_walking about as if agitated_). I wish you had never begun with them, Mr. O'Ryan. This may be a good joke to you, but it is none to me or Talbot. So Talbot never wrote a word of the song?

_Rory._ Not a word or syllable, good or bad.

_Lord J._ And I have given my promise to vote against him. He'll lose his election.

_Rory._ Not if you'll give me leave to speak to your friends in your name.

_Lord J._ I have promised to leave them to themselves; and Wheeler, I am sure, has engaged them by this time.

_Rory._ Bless my body! I'll not stay prating here then.

(_Exit Rory._)

_Lord J._ (_follows_). But what can have become of Talbot? I have been too hasty for once in my life. Well, I shall suffer for it more than anybody else; for I love Talbot, since he did not make the song, of which I hate to think.

(_Exit._)

SCENE III

_A large hall in Eton College--A staircase at the end--Eton lads, dressed in their Montem Dresses, in the Scene--In front,_ WHEELER (_dressed as Captain_), BURSAL, _and_ FINSBURY.

_Fins._ I give you infinite credit, Mr. Wheeler, for this dress.

_Burs._ _Infinite credit!_ Why, he'll have no objection to that--hey, Wheeler? But I thought Finsbury knew you too well to give you credit for anything.

_Fins._ You are pleased to be pleasant, sir. Mr. Wheeler knows, in that sense of the word, it is out of my power to give him credit, and I'm sure he would not ask it.

_Wheel._ (_aside_). O, Bursal, pay him, and I'll pay you to-morrow.

_Burs._ Now, if you weren't to be captain after all, Wheeler, what a pretty figure you'd cut. Ha! ha! ha!--Hey?

_Wheel._ Oh, I am as sure of being captain as of being alive. (_Aside._) Do pay for me, now, there's a good, dear fellow, before _they_ (_looking back_) come up.

_Burs._ (_aside_). I love to make him lick the dust. (_Aloud._) Hollo!

here's Finsbury waiting to be paid, lads. (_To the lads who are in the back scene._) Who has paid, and who has not paid? I say.

(_The lads come forward, and several exclaim at once_,) I've paid! I've paid!

_Enter_ LORD JOHN _and_ RORY O'RYAN.

_Rory._ Oh, King of Fashion, how fine we are! Why, now, to look at ye all one might fancy one's self at the playhouse at once, or at a fancy ball in dear little Dublin. Come, strike up a dance.

_Burs._ Pshaw! Wherever you come, Rory O'Ryan, no one else can be heard.

Who has paid, and who has not paid? I say.

_Several boys exclaim_, We've all paid.