“Here they come,” said the charlie at the hatch: “one man in red, either dead or dead drunk--three shy-looking scamps behind him--and a regular swell in front. Blessed Bridget! is it him? Be the hole in my coat, that’s yourself, Artur French, if ye’r ovir ground. May the davil welcome you, _astore!_ “Then if it is,” said the irritated commandant, “Artur French, you’ll have a new acquaintance in the morning, before ten o’clock.” There was no mistake in the identity. A young man dressed in the extreme of fashion pushed through the watchmen with an air of authority, and hopping on the bench where Mr. Bradley had hitherto reposed his person in solitary dignity, seated himself, unbidden, beside this dreaded functionary, and-- “for no inviting did he wait,” but seized the sacred pewter, and drained the contents to the very bottom. “How thirsty,” said he, “a shindy makes one! Not bad stuff that, Peter. But, governor, what’s the matter?”--and Mr. French looked steadily in Mr. Bradley’s face, which had assumed what was intended to pass for an expression of dignified displeasure. “If you’re not as sour as a Seville orange to-night! Come, come, old chap, tip us your daddle--give us a grip of your bunch of fives!” But Mr. Bradley held back his hand. “I tell ye what, Artur--don’t be after vexin’ me--I’m in bad temper to-night--and I’ll stand no gammon.” “Stand your granny!” returned the young _roué_; “I’ll tell ye what I’ll stand--and that’s more to the purpose. Broiled kidneys, black cockles, a gallon of heavy wet, and as much punch as you can swim in. Off with ye to Nosey McKeown’s,”--and crumpling up a pound note, he pitched it into a watchman’s face,--“See that all comes in hot; and take care that his daughter Sibby brews the punch. Now, Peter, try and look pleasant. An’t I better to you than a bad stepson?”--and he punched the commander’s ribs unceremoniously. “Arrah--Artur, have done, will ye? What the divil druv ye here the night, good or bad?” asked the commandant. “Well, I fancy you have named the gentleman that did it.” “I say, what brought ye here?” “Half a score of your scoundrels, Peter. I fell over that cursed fellow in the red jacket sleeping on the guard bed--and before I could get fairly on my pins, these villains had me fast.” “Well, there’s nothing else for it--you must go before Mr. Jones.” “Mr. Jones may go to Bath; but before Mr. Jones I won’t go.” “I can’t screen ye longer,” exclaimed the governor. “Screen me!” exclaimed the prisoner; “why what a pother you make about a little trifling civility.”