“Come forth, ye demons of the lower world,” said he, drawing a cloth from a large table, and discovering the figures of three young men coiled up beneath. “Come forth, and fear not, most timorous freshmen that ye are,” said he, unlocking a pantry, and liberating two others. “Gentlemen, let me introduce to your acquaintance Mr. O’Malley. My chum, gentlemen. Mr. O’Malley, that is Harry Nesbitt, who has been in college since the days of old Perpendicular, and numbers more cautions than any man who ever had his name on the books. Here is my particular friend, Cecil Cavendish, the only man who could ever devil kidneys. Captain Power, Mr. O’Malley, a dashing dragoon, as you see; aide-de-camp to his Excellency the Lord Lieutenant, and love-maker-general to Merrion Square West. These,” said he, pointing to the late denizens of the pantry, “are jibs whose names are neither known to the proctor nor the police-office; but with due regard to their education and morals, we don’t despair.” “By no means,” said Power; “but come, let us resume our game.” At these words he took a folio atlas of maps from a small table, and displayed beneath a pack of cards, dealt as if for whist. The two gentlemen to whom I was introduced by name returned to their places; the unknown two put on their boxing gloves, and all resumed the hilarity which Dr. Mooney’s advent had so suddenly interrupted. “Where’s Moore?” said Webber, as he once more seated himself at his breakfast. “Making a spatch-cock, sir,” said the servant. At the same instant, a little, dapper, jovial-looking personage appeared with the dish in question. “Mr. O’Malley, Mr. Moore, the gentleman who, by repeated remonstrances to the board, has succeeded in getting eatable food for the inhabitants of this penitentiary, and has the honored reputation of reforming the commons of college.” “Anything to Godfrey O’Malley, may I ask, sir?” said Moore. “His nephew,” I replied. “Which of you winged the gentleman the other day for not passing the decanter, or something of that sort?” “If you mean the affair with Mr. Bodkin, it was I.” “Glorious, that; begad, I thought you were one of us. I say, Power, it was he pinked Bodkin.” “Ah, indeed,” said Power, not turning his head from his game, “a pretty shot, I heard,--two by honors,--and hit him fairly,--the odd trick. Hammersley mentioned the thing to me.” “Oh, is he in town?” said I. “No; he sailed for Portsmouth yesterday. He is to join the llth--game. I say, Webber, you’ve lost the rubber.” “Double or quit, and a dinner at Dunleary,” said Webber. “We must show O’Malley,--confound the Mister!--something of the place.” “Agreed.” The whist was resumed; the boxers, now refreshed by a leg of the spatch-cock, returned to their gloves; Mr. Moore took up his violin; Mr. Webber his French horn; and I was left the only unemployed man in the company. “I say, Power, you’d better bring the drag over here for us; we can all go down together.”