“Not at all—nor a glass of brandy in it, if you like it. Indeed, Mr Lynch, I think that, just at present, it will be the better thing for you.”
Barry got his bottle of soda water, and swallowed about two glasses of whiskey in it, for brandy was beginning to be scarce with him; and then commenced his toilet. He took Parson Armstrong’s hint, and wasn’t very particular about it. He huddled on his clothes, smoothed his hair with his brush, and muttering something about it’s being their own fault, descended into the parlour, followed by Mr Armstrong. He made a kind of bow to Lord Ballindine; took no notice of Martin, but, turning round sharp on the doctor, said:
“Of all the false ruffians, I ever met, Colligan—by heavens, you’re the worst! There’s one comfort, no man in Dunmore will believe a word you say.” He then threw himself back into the easy chair, and said, “Well, gentlemen—well, my lord—here I am. You can’t say I’m ashamed to show my face, though I must say your visit is not made in the genteelest manner.”
“Mr Lynch,” said the parson, “do you remember the night Doctor Colligan knocked you down in this room? In this room, wasn’t it, doctor?”
“Yes; in this room,” said the doctor, rather sotto voce.
“Do you remember the circumstance, Mr Lynch?”
“It’s a lie!” said Barry.
“No it’s not,” said the parson. “If you forget it, I can call in the servant to remember so much as that for me; but you’ll find it better, Mr Lynch, to let us finish this business among ourselves. Come, think about it. I’m sure you remember being knocked down by the doctor.”
“I remember a scrimmage there was between us. I don’t care what the girl says, she didn’t see it. Colligan, I suppose, has given her half-a-crown, and she’d swear anything for that.”
“Well, you remember the night of the scrimmage?”