“I have seen nothing else than the same scenes for forty years, but I never remember the people more regular in their payments,” said the attorney.
“Well, don't venture among the Drumcoologhan boys alone; that, at least, I would recommend you,” said the doctor, menacingly.
“Why not?—who are they?—where are these fellows?” cried Cashel, for danger was a theme that never failed to stir his heart.
“It 's a bad barony, sir,” said Kennyfeck, solemnly.
“A district that has supplied the gallows and the convict-ship for many a year; but we are wandering away from the theme we ought to discuss,” interposed Tiernay, “and the question narrows itself to this; if this property is still yours,—if you have not already consigned it to another,—what is my friend's interest worth?”
“That will require calculation and reflection.”
“Neither, Mr. Kennyfeck,” broke in Cashel. “Learn Mr. Corrigan's expectations, and see that they are complied with.”
“My friend desired a small annuity on the life of his granddaughter.”
“Be it an annuity, then,” replied Cashel.
“By heaven!” exclaimed Tiernay, as if he could not restrain the impulse that worked within him, “you are a fine-hearted fellow. Here, sir,” said he, taking a paper from his pocket,—“here is a document, which my poor friend sat up half the night to write, but which I'd half made up my mind never to give you. You'd never guess what it is, nor your keen friend either, but I 'll spare you the trouble of spelling it over. It's a renunciation of Cornelius Corrigan, Esq., for himself and his heirs forever, of all right, direct or contingent, to the estate of Tubbermore, once the family property of his ancestors for eleven generations. You never heard of such a claim,” said Tiernay, turning to Cashel, “but Mr. Kennyfeck did; he knows well the importance of that piece of paper he affects to treat with such indifference.”