omed to
it," said Doolan. "How's the lady that owns ye? Maybe I'll step down
Sunday, and have a glass of punch, Kilburn way."

"Don't bring Patsey with you, Mick, for our Georgy's got the measles,"
said the friendly Morgan, and they straightway fell to talk about
matters connected with their trade--about the foreign mails--about who
was correspondent at Paris, and who wrote from Madrid--about the expense
the Morning Journal was at in sending couriers, about the circulation of
the Evening Star, and so forth.

Warrington, laughing, took the Dawn which was lying before him, and
pointed to one of the leading articles in that journal, which commenced
thus--

"As rogues of note in former days who had some wicked work to
perform,--an enemy to be put out of the way, a quantity of false coin
to be passed, a lie to be told or a murder to be done--employed a
professional perjurer or assassin to do the work, which they were
themselves too notorious or too cowardly to execute: our notorious
contemporary, the Day, engages smashers out of doors to utter forgeries
against individuals, and calls in auxiliary cut-throats to murder the
reputation of those who offend him. A black-vizarded ruffian (whom we
will unmask), who signs the forged name of Trefoil, is at present one of
the chief bravoes and bullies in our contemporary's establishment. He is
the eunuch who brings the bowstring, and strangles at the order of
the Day. We can convict this cowardly slave, and propose to do so. The
charge which he has brought against Lord Bangbanagher, because he is a
Liberal Irish peer, and against the Board of Poor Law Guardians of the
Bangbanagher Union, is," etc.

"How did they like the article at your place, Mick?" asked Morgan; "when
the Captain puts his hand to it he's a tremendous hand at a smasher. He
wrote the article in two hours--in--whew--you know where, while the boy
was waiting."

"Our governor thinks the public don't mind a straw about these newspaper
rows, and has told the Docthor to stop answering," said the other. "Them
two talked it out together in my room. The Docthor would have liked a
turn, for he says it's such easy writing, and requires no reading up of
a subject: but the governor put a stopper on him."

"The taste for eloquence is going out, Mick," said Morgan.

"'Deed then it is, Morgan," said Mick. "That was fine writing when the
Docthor wrote in the Phaynix, and he and Condy Roony blazed away at each
other day after