“An' them's gentlemen!,” said Keane, closing his lips and shaking his head sententiously.
Linton arose; he did not over-fancy the turn of reflection Tom's remark implied: it looked too like the expression of a general condemnation of his class—at the very moment, too, when he was desirous of impressing him with the fullest trust and confidence in his own honor.
“I believe it's safer to have nothin' to do with it,” muttered Keane.
“As you please, friend,” replied Linton; “I never squeeze any man's conscience. You know best what your own life is.”
“Hard enough, that's what it is,” said the other, bitterly.
“You can also make a guess what it will be in future, when you leave this.”
A deep groan was all that he gave for answer.
“For all that I know, you may have many friends who 'll not see your wife and children begging along the roads, or sitting in a hole scooped out of a clay ditch, without food or fire, waiting for the fever to finish what famine has begun. You have n't far to seek for what I mean; about two hundred yards from that gate yonder there 's a group exactly like it.”
“Ye 're a terrible man, that's the truth,” said Tom, as he wiped the big drops of perspiration from his forehead. “Be gorra, I never seed your like afore!”
“I told you that I was a determined man,” said Linton, sternly; “and I'm sorry to see that's not what I should say of you.” He moved a step or two as he spoke, and then turning carelessly back, added, “Leave that money for me at 'The house' this evening; I don't wish to carry gold about me on the roads here.” And with this negligent remark he departed.