“Sure, where could I go?” said Mr Murphy.
“Go to America. Here’s a couple of sovereigns for you; and, see here, if you’ll make up your mind to cut the country I’ll help. Apply to me at No. 10A Merrion Square, Dublin, and I’ll pay your passage, and give you a fiver to start you.”
“Sure, what could I do in Amerika?” said Mr Murphy, pocketing the coins without a word of thanks.
“Do? Why, go on the stock exchange—no, go into politics, that’s your true position in life. You waste your time here. Well, I’m off—good-day.”
“Good-day to yiz,” replied the other. “Sure, it’s you I’d like to have at me elbow in a row.”
“Oh, I think you’re able to look after yourself;” said Mr Fanshawe, as he departed.
“I’m not a chicken,” replied the other. “Good-day to yiz. Come, Con, we’ve words to say to wan another.”
“O Dicky,” said Violet, when—having found each other by hallooing—they pressed their lips together, “I’m so frightened. Has he shot him?”
“No,” replied Mr Fanshawe, chuckling, “but he’s done nearly as bad. Come on, and let’s find the road; it’s half-past twelve, and that confounded luncheon will be kept waiting for us again.”
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“Now, Misther Cogan,” said Paddy, when the last glimpse of Mr Fanshawe had vanished amidst the trees, “a word in your ear.”
“Paddy,” said Con Cogan, who was white to his lips, and licking them, “you may b’lave me or not, but it wasn’t I set Billy Croom on to yiz.”
“Who said you did?” asked Paddy. “Who said Con Cogan ever went back on a friend? Show me the man that siz it, and I’ll show you his liver on the pint of a stick.”
Con Cogan would have much preferred Paddy to have stormed at him. You see, he knew his man.
“And now that we’ve finished the parlymentaries,” said Mr Murphy, “we’ll get to bizness. Into the ould tree wid you, and fitch me the powther horn, the bu’lets and the waddin’, for I’m goin’ huntin’.”
“Paddy, sure, y’ ain’t goin’ to shut me?” asked Con. He looked sick, and no blame to him, for it is always an unpleasant question when one has to put it to another man.
“Shut you?” said Mr Murphy, with fine contempt, which Con felt to be a horrible simulation. “Shut _you_—what’s set you cockin’ yourself up wid the idea you was worth powther and shot? Into the tree wid yiz, and do me biddin’.”