“We can talk about that another time,” said the doctor, who began to feel an excessive wish to be out of the house.
“There’s no time like the present, when I’ve got it in my mind; and, if you’ll wait, I can settle it all for you to-night. I was telling you that I hate farming, and so I do. There are thirty or five-and-thirty acres of land about the house, and lying round to the back of the town; you shall take them off my hands, and welcome.”
This was too good an offer to be resisted, and Colligan said he would take the land, with many thanks, if the rent any way suited him.
“We’ll not quarrel about that, you may be sure, Colligan,” continued Barry; “and as I said fifty acres at first—it was fifty acres I think you were saying you wished for—I’ll not baulk you, and go back from my own word.”
“What you have yourself, round the house, ’ll be enough; only I’m thinking the rent ’ll be too high.”
“It shall not; it shall be low enough; and, as I was saying, you shall have the remainder, at the same price, immediately after Michaelmas, as soon as ever those devils are ejected.”
“Well;” said Colligan, who was now really interested, “what’s the figure?”
Barry had been looking steadfastly at the fire during the whole conversation, up to this: playing with the poker, and knocking the coals about. He was longing to look into the other’s face, but he did not dare. Now, however, was his time; it was now or never: he took one furtive glance at the doctor, and saw that he was really anxious on the subject—that his attention was fixed.
“The figure,” said he; “the figure should not trouble you if you had no one but me to deal, with. But there’ll be Anty, confound her, putting her fist into this and every other plan of mine!”
“I’d better deal with the agent, I’m thinking,” said Colligan; “so, good night.”