By the fluctuations of O'Shea's fortunes, Joe's whole conduct seemed moulded. When the world went well with his master, his manner grew somewhat almost respectful; let the times grow worse, Joe became indifferent; a shade lower, and he was familiar and insolent; and, by long habit, O'Shea had come to recognize these changes as part of the condition of a varying fortune.
Little wonder was it that Joe grew to speak of his master and himself as one, complaining, as he would, “We never got sixpence out of our property. 'T is the ruin of us paying that annuity to our mother;” and so on.
Now, these considerations, and many others like them, weighed deeply on O'Shea's mind, as he entered the room of the hotel, angry and irritated, doubtless, but far from decided as to how he should manifest it. Indeed, the deliberation was cut short, for there stood Joe before him.
“I thought I was never to see your face again,” said O'Shea, scowling at him. “How dare you have the insolence to appear before me?”
“Is n't it well for you that I 'm alive? Ain't you lucky that you 're not answering for my death this minute?” said the other, boldly. “And if I did n't drive like blazes, would I be here now? Appear before you, indeed! I'd like to know who you 'd be appearin' before, if I was murthered with them bitthers you gave me?”
“Lying scoundrel! you think to turn it all off in this manner. You commit a theft first, and if the offence had killed you, it's no more than you deserved. Who told you to steal the contents of that bag, sir?”
“The devil, I suppose, for I never felt pain like it,—twistin' and tearin' and torturin' me as if you had a pinchers in my inside, and were nippin' me to pieces!”
“I 'm glad of it,—heartily glad of it.”
“I know you are,—I know you well. 'T is a corpse you 'd like to see me this minute.”
“So that I never set eyes on you, I don't care what becomes of you.”