“If I'm not worth trustin' now,” replied the other, doggedly, “ye 'd betther have nothin' to say to me.”
“I did not mean that, nor anything like it, Tom. I was only alluding to your straightforward, business-like way of treating a subject which less vigorously minded men would approach timidly and carefully.”
“Faix, I 'd go up to him bouldly, if ye mane that!” cried the other, who misconceived the eulogy passed upon his candor.
“I know it,—well I know it,” said Linton, encouraging a humor he had thus casually evoked; for in the bloodshot eyes and flushed cheeks of the other, it was plain to see what was passing within him.
“Do ye want it done? Tell me that,—be fair and above boord with me,—do you want it done?”
Linton was silent; but a slight, an almost imperceptible motion of his brows made the reply.
“And now what's it worth?” resumed Tom.
“To you,” said Linton, speaking slowly, “it is worth much—everything. It is all the difference between poverty, suffering, and a jail, and a life of ease and comfort either here or in America. Your little farm, that you hold at present by the will, or rather the caprice, of your landlord, becomes your own forever; when I say forever, I mean what is just as good, since the estate will be thrown back into Chancery; and it is neither your children nor mine will see the end of that.”
“That's no answer to me,” said Keane, fixing his cold, steady stare on Linton's face. “I want to know—and I won't ax it again—what is it worth to you?”