“Well, well, never mind it now; ye see ye’re just keeping your friends cooling themselves there in the corner—introduce me at once.” “Mr. Lorrequer, I’m sure—.” “My name is Curzon,” said the adjutant, bowing. “A mighty pretty name, though a little profane; well, Mr. Curse-on,” for so he pronounced it, “ye’re as welcome as the flowers in May; and it’s mighty proud I am to see ye here. “Mr. Lorrequer, allow me to shake your hand—I’ve heard of ye before.” There seemed nothing very strange in that; for go where I would through this country, I seemed as generally known as ever was Brummell in Bond-street. “Fin tells me,” continued Father Malachi, “that ye’d rather not be known down here, in regard of a reason,” and here he winked. “Make yourselves quite easy; the king’s writ was never but once in these parts; and the ‘original and true copy’ went back to Limerick in the stomach of the server; they made him eat it, Mr. Lorrequer; but it’s as well to be cautious, for there are a good number here. A little dinner, a little quarterly dinner we have among us, Mr. Curseon, to be social together, and raise a ‘thrifle’ for the Irish college at Rome, where we have a probationer or two, ourselves.” “As good as a station, and more drink,” whispered Fin into my ear. “And now,” continued the priest, “ye must just permit me to re-christen ye both, and the contribution will not be the less for what I’m going to do; and I’m certain you’ll not be worse for the change Mr. Curseon—though ’tis only for a few hours, ye’ll have a dacent name.”