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 were as harmless as they were noisy; that they resulted in nothing; and that, on whatever terms the curates might part to-night, they would be sure to meet the best friends in the world to-morrow morning.

As the worthy pair were sitting by their kitchen fire, listening to the repeated and sonorous contact of Malone’s fist with the mahogany plane of the parlour table, and to the consequent start and jingle of decanters and glasses following each assault, to the mocking laughter of the allied English disputants, and the stuttering declamation of the isolated Hibernian,—as they thus sat, a foot was heard on the outer door-step, and the knocker quivered to a sharp appeal.

Mr. Gale went and opened.

“Whom have you up-stairs in the parlour?” asked a voice; a rather remarkable voice, nasal in tone, abrupt in utterance.

“Oh! Mr. Helstone, is it you, sir? I could hardly see you for the darkness; it is so soon dark now. Will you walk in, sir?”

“I want to know first whether it is worth my while walking in. Whom have you up-stairs?”

“The curates, sir.”

“What! all of them?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Been dining here?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That will do.”