ppose we try Loftus.'

'Dan Loftus!' ejaculated Devereux.

'Dan Loftus,' repeated the little doctor, testily; 'remember, it's just
eleven o'clock. He's no great things, to be sure; but what better can we
get.'

'Allons, donc!' said Devereux, donning his cocked-hat, with a shrug, and
the least little bit of a satirical smile, and out bustled the doctor
beside him.

'Where the deuce did that broganeer, O'Flaherty, come from?' said
Cluffe, confidentially, to old Major O'Neill.

'A Connaughtman,' answered the major, with a grim smile, for he was
himself of that province and was, perhaps, a little bit proud of his
countryman.

'Toole says he's well connected,' pursued Cluffe; 'but, by Jupiter! I
never saw so-mere a Teague; and the most cross-grained devil of a
cat-a-mountain.'

'I could not quite understand why he fastened on Mr. Nutter,' observed
the major, with a mild smile.

'I'll rid the town of him,' rapped out Nutter, with an oath, leering at
his own shoebuckle, and tapping the sole with asperity on the floor.

'If you are thinking of any unpleasant measures, gentlemen, I'd rather,
if you please, know nothing of them,' said the sly, quiet major; 'for
the general, you are aware, has expressed a strong opinion about such
affairs; and as 'tis past my bed-hour, I'll wish you, gentlemen, a
good-night,' and off went the major.

'Upon my life, if this Connaught rapparee is permitted to carry on his
business of indiscriminate cut-throat here, he'll make the service very
pleasant,' resumed Cluffe, who, though a brisk young fellow of
eight-and-forty, had no special fancy for being shot. 'I say the general
ought to take the matter into his own hands.'

'Not till I'm done with it,' growled Nutter.

'And send the young gentleman home to Connaught,' pursued Cluffe.

'I'll send him first to the other place,' said Nutter, in allusion to
the Lord Protector's well-known alternative.

In the open street, under the sly old moon, red little Dr. Toole, in his
great wig, and Gipsy Devereux, in quest of a squire for the good knight
who stood panting for battle in the front parlour of the 'Phoenix,'
saw a red glimmer in Loftus's dormant window.

'He's alive and stirring still,' said Devereux, approaching the hall
door with a military nonchalance.

'Whisht!' said Toole, plucking him back by the sash: 'we must not make a
noise--the house is asleep. I'll manage it--leave it to me.'

And he took up a handful of gravel, but no