the Doctor, who, with all his faults, delighted
in being hospitable, "we have as noble
a bit of beef, the old-fashioned 'corned,'
pickled under my own eye—as noble a bit
as ever made mahogany creak. Now, my
lord, if you'll come and cut it: we've only
Billy Webber———"

"Don't say a word more; I will. This
is what I like. Promise, too, you'll give me
one of the 'emperors' going home."

"No; but Coaxy shall fill your case for
you when you're going. Now, this is what
I call friendly. It reminds me of old
Ireland"

"A capital place to be reminded of; trust
an old soldier often quartered in Dublin. I
declare your description of the corned round
is quite appetising! I long to be at it."

When he was gone, rejoicing, the Doctor
made this simple comment: "Then it's
Hungry Hall he's going to. Cold baked
meats a Sundays, to let the servants go
to church, that is, the public house! But,
my sweets, you'll have the soldiers here,
as sure as the duns come at Christmas."

Polly flew to his arms. "Ye think so,
Peter, dear? But don't they always only
make love to girls?"

"Only, Pet? And what then?"

"Oh you know, Peter. And then back
out?"

"I'd like to see the jackheen among 'em
as would dare trifle with my Polly or my
Katey. Send word to Peter, dears, the
moment one of them so much as names his
heart, and I'm down on him like the snap
of one of their rifles. Let one of the party
try so much as the ghost of a trick with
my sweets, and Peter has him by the
scruff of the neck."

"In all their marching they won't see
such a pretty girl as Polly, will they,
Peter?" said Katey, earnestly. "There's
always two or three of them marry in a
country town!"

"The pick of them, my child. Now I'll
just take a peep at the round and give the
drinks a gentle warm. God speed ye both,
dears."

Doctor Findlater and his family have been
thus rather sketchily outlined. So, before
his favourite joint is introduced to his
guests, we may go back a little, as some
friends of his were fond of doing, and put
together a few scraps and rumours as to
his previous history.

CHAPTER V. HISTORY OF DOCTOR FINDLATER.

DOCTOR FINDLATER was, unhappily, one
of those men who, instead of standing at
elegant bars, all ablaze with soft lights, and
having their oysters luxuriously opened for
them, with no more trouble than adding
lemon, and pepper, and other seasoning,
must painfully open their own oysters with
the first rude tool they can find, and such
skill as they can bring to it. He was a very
"low" person indeed, and, to do him
justice, was never known to make claims about
lineage, or boast of being connected with
any special Findlaters of eminence. He had
had a laborious struggle, and "had fought
his way up," to use his favourite expression,
"every inch of it." "Ah, my boy," he
would say, in the snuggest of parlours,
the words floating on the pleasant steam of
mellow Kinahan, "it was sore and
heart-scalding. But through the bounty
of Providence, I made my way!" This was,
indeed, unfairly laying to the account of
Providence the not over-scrupulously clean
path which his struggles compelled him to
take; for Findlater, putting on his profession,
as it might be, "an old rag of a dressing
gown,"performed in it many questionable
rites, being ready, as he said, "to do
any kind of a decent hand's turn to make
an honest copper." Some of the Doctor's
friends, when he reached ease and
comfort, were fond of repeating that they had
known him when he was running about,
the son of a little apothecary near Cork,
a practitioner who had later run off to
America, leaving a large family to the
ratepayers. This incident the "friends"
took care to keep fresh and green, as
news came to them in course of time of
Peter's doing so well in England. In truth,
no accurate or consecutive account could
be given of Peter's biography, it being
marked by strange gaps, long disappearances
—blanks, as it were; just as an otter will
take to the water, the dirtier the better,
and come up at long intervals to breathe.
He had what his friends called a "good
manner" with him, which could be resolved
into a sort of oily obsequiousness, a kind
of universal agreement with all, controlled
by a sharp instinct, which told him in a
second who was the most profitable to
agree with. Compared with this "manner"
of his, which he protested could have
made him "Lord Chief Justice," he owned
candidly he did not value his medical
attainments "that snuff there!" And, to
be candid, he was not much indebted to
them for getting him on. After prodigious
exertions, and what his "friends" always
—he would not admit any enemies—called
"a deal of dirty work," he had got a small