Strewn across the bed was a multitude of jumbled garments. His shoulders were bent, his face was furrowed with wrinkles. Harkee," he added, "Mr. It was lent me by a countryman o' mine; but I paid him back in his own coin—ha! ha!" "A countryman of yours, Terry?" "Ay, and a noble one, too, Quilt—more's the pity! You've heard of the Marquis of Slaughterford, belike?" "Of course; who has not? He's the leader of the Mohocks, the general of the Scourers, the prince of rakes, the friend of the surgeons and glaziers, the terror of your tribe, and the idol of the girls!" "That's him to a hair?" cried Terence, rapturously. He said the place had gone to wrack. "What has put it into your head that your son yet lives?" he asked. An early bird clarinetist burst through in a long black skirt, swishing like a bell.
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