The lovely "steek" with the gravy in it—that is to say, nearly raw—was now ready, and father and son adjourned to the next room. "Well, Tom, my lad of wax; and how's the world using you?" said Mr. Mollett senior.
"There ain't much difference then," said Tom; "I ain't no younger, nor yet no richer than when yer honour left us—and what is't to be, sir?—a pint of stout, sir?"
As soon as Mr. Mollett senior had finished his dinner, and Tom had brought the father and son materials for making whisky-punch, they both got their knees together over the fire, and commenced the confidential conversation which Miss O'Dwyer had interrupted on her return to the bar-room. They spoke now almost in a whisper, with their heads together over the fender, knowing from experience that what Tom wanted in eyes he made up in ears.
"And what did Prendergast say when he paid you the rhino?" asked the son.
"Not a word," said the other. "After all, I don't think he knows any more than a ghost what he pays it for: I think he gets fresh instructions every time. But, any ways, there it was, all right."
"Hall right, indeed! I do believe you'd be satisfied to go on getting a few dribblets now and then like that. And then if anything 'appened to you, why I might go fish."
"How, Aby, look here—"
"It's hall very well, governor; but I'll tell you what. Since you started off I've been thinking a good deal about it, and I've made up my mind that this shilly-shallying won't do any good: we must strike a blow that'll do something for us."
"Well, I don't think we've done so bad already, taking it all-in-all."
"Ah, that's because you haven't the pluck to strike a good blow. Now I'll just let you know what I propose—and I tell you fairly, governor, if you'll not hear reason, I'll take the game into my own hands."