“Well, I am sure, I never could think of mentioning it without his leave; but now that he sees no objection—Eh, do you though? if so, then, don’t be winking and making faces at me; but say the word, and devil a syllable of it I’ll tell to man or mortal.” The latter part of this delectable speech was addressed to me across the table, in a species of stage whisper, in reply to some telegraphic signals I had been throwing him, to induce him to turn the conversation into any other channel. “Then, that’s enough,” continued he sotto voce—“I see you’d rather I’d not tell it.” “Tell it and be d——d,” said I, wearied by the incorrigible pertinacity with which the villain assailed me. My most unexpected energy threw the whole table into a roar, at the conclusion of which Fin began his narrative of the mail-coach adventure. I need not tell my reader, who has followed me throughout in these my Confessions, that such a story lost nothing of its absurdity, when entrusted to the Doctor’s powers of narration; he dwelt with a poet’s feeling upon the description of his own sufferings, and my sincere condolence and commiseration; he touched with the utmost delicacy upon the distant hints by which he broke the news to me; but when he came to describe my open and undisguised terror, and my secret and precipitate retreat to the roof of the coach, there was not a man at table that was not convulsed with laughter—-and, shall I acknowledge it, even I myself was unable to withstand the effect, and joined in the general chorus against myself. “Well,” said the remorseless wretch, as he finished his story, “if ye haven’t the hard hearts to laugh at such a melancholy subject. Maybe, however, you’re not so cruel after all—here’s a toast for you, ‘a speedy recovery to Cusack Rooney.’” This was drank amid renewed peals, with all the honors; and I had abundant time before the uproar was over, to wish every man of them hanged. It was to no purpose that I endeavoured to turn the tables, by describing Fin’s terror at my supposed resemblance to a highwayman—his story had the precedence, and I met nothing during my recital but sly allusions to mad dogs, muzzles, and doctors; and contemptible puns were let off on every side at my expense. “It’s little shame I take to myself for the mistake, any how,” said Fin, “for putting the darkness of the night out of question, I’m not so sure I would not have ugly suspicions of you by daylight.” “And besides, Doctor,” added I, “it would not be your first blunder in the dark.” “True for you, Mr. Lorrequer,” said he, good-humouredly; “and now that I have told them your story, I don’t care if they hear mine, though maybe some of ye have heard it already—it’s pretty well known in the North Cork.” We all gave our disclaimers on this point, and having ordered in a fresh cooper of port, disposed ourselves in our most easy attitudes, while the Doctor proceeded as follows:—