‘Just what I said, my lord, the devil a more nor less, and that the money you see here is no more yours nor it is mine! It belongs to the land it came from. Ay, ay, stamp away, and go red in the face: you must hear the truth, whether you like it or no. The place we’re living in is going to rack and ruin out of sheer bad treatment. There’s not a hedge on the estate; there isn’t a gate that could be called a gate; the holes the people live in isn’t good enough for badgers; there’s no water for the mill at the cross-roads; and the Loch meadows is drowned with wet—we’re dragging for the hay, like seaweed! And you think you’ve a right to these’—and he actually shook the notes at him—to go and squander them on them “impedint” Englishmen that was laughing at you! Didn’t I hear them myself about the tablecloth that one said was the sail of a boat.’
‘Will you hold your tongue?’ cried Kearney, wild with passion.
‘I will not! I’ll die on the floore but I’ll speak my mind.’
This was not only a favourite phrase of Mr. Gill’s, but it was so far significant that it always indicated he was about to give notice to leave—a menace on his part of no unfrequent occurrence.
‘Ye’s going, are ye?’ asked Kearney jeeringly.
‘I just am; and I’m come to give up the books, and to get my receipts and my charac—ter.’
‘It won’t be hard to give the last, anyway,’ said Kearney, with a grin.
‘So much the better. It will save your honour much writing, with all that you have to do.’
‘Do you want me to kick you out of the office, Peter Gill?’
‘No, my lord, I’m going quiet and peaceable. I’m only asking my rights.’