What he was going to add, there 's no saying; but Peter, who was now terribly frightened at the lively tone the sick man was assuming, hurried all the people away into another room, to let his father die in peace.
When they were all gone Peter slipped back to my father, who was putting on his brogues in a corner. “Con,” says he, “ye did it all well; but sure that was a joke about the two acres at the cross.”
“Of course it was, Peter,” says he; “sure it was all a joke, for the matter of that. Won't I make the neighbors laugh hearty to-morrow when I tell them all about it!”
“You wouldn't be mean enough to betray me?” says Peter, trembling with fright.
“Sure ye would n't be mean enough to go against yer father's dying words,” says my father,—“the last sentence ever he spoke? And here he gave a low, wicked laugh, that made myself shake with fear.
“Very well, Con!” says Peter, holding out his hand; “a bargain's a bargain; yer a deep fellow, that's all!” And so it ended; and my father slipped quietly home over the bog, mighty well satisfied with the legacy he left himself.
And thus we became the owners of the little spot known to this day as Con's Acre; of which, more hereafter.
