‘Oh, I know well enough what you mean. If a man doesn’t work with a spade or follow the plough, you won’t believe that he works at all. He must drive, or dig, or drain, or mow. There’s no labour but what strains a man’s back, and makes him weary about the loins; but I’ll tell you, Peter Gill, that it’s here’—and he touched his forehead with his finger—‘it’s here is the real workshop. It’s thinking and contriving; setting this against that; doing one thing that another may happen, and guessing what will come if we do this and don’t do that; carrying everything in your brain, and, whether you are sitting over a glass with a friend or taking a nap after dinner, thinking away all the time! What would you call that, Peter Gill—what would you call that?’
‘Madness, begorra, or mighty near it!’
‘No; it’s just work—brain-work. As much above mere manual labour as the intellect, the faculty that raises us above the brutes, is above the—the—’
‘Yes,’ said Gill, opening the large volume and vaguely passing his hand over a page. ‘It’s somewhere there about the Conacre!’
‘You’re little better than a beast!’ said Kearney angrily.
‘Maybe I am, and maybe I’m not. Let us finish this, now that we’re about it.’
And so saying, he deposited his other books and papers on the table, and then drew from his breast-pocket a somewhat thick roll of exceedingly dirty bank-notes, fastened with a leather thong.
‘I’m glad to see some money at last, Peter,’ cried Kearney, as his eye caught sight of the notes.
‘Faix, then, it’s little good they’ll do ye,’ muttered the other gruffly.
‘What d’ye mean by that, sir?’ asked he angrily.