The House by the Church-Yard Read Online Free PDF Page A

the chuckle with which he had just requited the fat old barmaid still ringing in the passage—'Stay there, sweetheart,' addressed to a dog squeezing by him, and which screeched out as he kicked it neatly round the door–post.
    'Hey, your most obedient, Sir,' cried the doctor, with a short but grand bow, affecting surprise, though his chief object in visiting the back parlour at that moment was precisely to make a personal inspection of the stranger. 'Pray, don’t mind me, Sir,—your—ho! Breakfast ended, eh? Coffee not so bad, Sir; rather good coffee, I hold it, at the Phoenix. Cream very choice, Sir?—I don’t tell 'em so though (a wink); it might not improve it, you know. I hope they gave you—eh?—eh? (he peeped into the cream–ewer, which he turned towards the light, with a whisk). And no disputing the eggs—forty–eight hens in the poultry yard, and ninety ducks in Tresham’s little garden, next door to Sturk’s. They make a precious noise, I can tell you, when it showers. Sturk threatens to shoot 'em. He’s the artillery surgeon here; and Tom Larkin said, last night, it’s because they only dabble and quack—and two of a trade, you know—ha! ha! ha! And what a night we had—dark as Erebus—pouring like pumps, by Jove. I’ll remember it, I warrant you. Out on business—a medical man, you know, can’t always choose—and near meeting a bad accident too. Anything in the paper, eh? ho! I see, Sir, haven’t read it. Well, and what do you think—a queer night for the purpose, eh? you’ll say—we had a funeral in the town last night, Sir—some one from Dublin. It was Tressel’s men came out. The turnpike rogue—just round the corner there—one of the talkingest gossips in the town—and a confounded prying, tattling place it is, I can tell you—knows the driver; and Bob Martin, the sexton, you know—tells me there were two parsons, no less—hey! Cauliflowers in season, by Jove. Old Dr. Walsingham, our rector, a pious man, Sir, and does a world of good—that is to say, relieves half the blackguards in the parish—ha! ha! when we’re on the point of getting rid of them—but means well, only he’s a little bit lazy, and queer, you know; and that rancid, raw–boned parson, Gillespie—how the plague did they pick him up?—one of the mutes told Bob 'twas he. He’s from Donegal; I know all about him; the sourest dog I ever broke bread with—and mason, if you please, by Jove—a prince pelican! He supped at the Grand Lodge after labour, one night—
you’re
not a mason, I see; tipt you the sign—and his face was so pinched, and so yellow, by Jupiter, I was near squeezing it into the punch–bowl for a lemon—ha! ha! hey?'
    Mervyn’s large eyes expressed a well–bred surprise. Dr. Toole paused for nearly a minute, as if expecting something in return; but it did not come.
    So the doctor started afresh, never caring for Mervyn’s somewhat dangerous looks.
    'Mighty pretty prospects about here, Sir. The painters come out by dozens in the summer, with their books and pencils, and scratch away like so many Scotchmen. Ha! ha! ha! If you draw, Sir, there’s one prospect up the river, by the mills—upon my conscience—but you don’t draw?'
    No answer.
    'A little, Sir, maybe? Just for a maggot, I’ll wager—like
my
good lady, Mrs. Toole.' A nearer glance at his dress had satisfied Toole that he was too much of a maccaroni for an artist, and he was thinking of placing him upon the lord lieutenant’s staff. 'We’ve capital horses here, if you want to go on to Leixlip,' (where—this between ourselves and the reader—during the summer months His Excellency and Lady Townshend resided, and where, the old newspapers tell us, they 'kept a public day every Monday,' and he 'had a levée, as usual, every Thursday.') But this had no better success.
    'If you design to stay over the day, and care for shooting, we’ll have some ball practice on Palmerstown fair–green to–day. Seven baronies to