“Of course he has; they are always bolstering each other up. It is, 'Barrington, my boy, you 'll turn the corner yet. You 'll drive up that old avenue to the house you were born in, Barrington, of Barrington Hall;' or, 'Withering, I never heard you greater than on that point before the twelve Judges;' or, 'Your last speech at Bar was finer than Curran.' They'd pass the evening that way, and call me a cantankerous old hound when my back was turned, just because I did n't hark in to the cry. Maybe I have the laugh at them, after all.” And he broke out into one of his most discordant cackles to corroborate his boast.
“The sound sense and experience of an old Walcheren man might have its weight with them. I know it would with me.”
“Ay,” muttered the Major, half aloud, for he was thinking to himself whether this piece of flattery was a bait for a little whiskey-and-water.
“I 'd rather have the unbought judgment of a shrewd man of the world than a score of opinions based upon the quips and cranks of an attorney's instructions.”
“Ay!” responded the other, as he mumbled to himself, “he's mighty thirsty.”
“And what's more,” said Stapylton, starting to his legs, “I 'd follow the one as implicitly as I'd reject the other. I 'd say, 'M'Cormick is an old friend; we have known each other since boyhood.'”
“No, we haven't I never saw Peter Barrington till I came to live here.”
“Well, after a close friendship of years with his son—”
“Nor that, either,” broke in the implacable Major. “He was always cutting his jokes on me, and I never could abide him, so that the close friendship you speak of is a mistake.”
“At all events,” said Stapylton, sharply, “it could be no interest of yours to see an old—an old acquaintance lavishing his money on lawyers and in the pursuit of the most improbable of all results. You have no design upon him. You don't want to marry his sister!”