“No, Tom, no,—I entreat—I beg of you,” said Lucy, standing between her brother and the old man, and placing her hand on Tom's lips; “you know well that he can't help it.”
“That's just it,” cried Nicholas, catching the words; “I can't help it. I 'm too old to help it. It is n't after eight-and-forty years one ought to be looking out for new sarvice.”
“Papa hopes that grandpapa will have no objection to taking you, Nicholas; he means to write about it to-day; but if there should be a difficulty, he has another place.”
“Maybe I'm to 'list and be a sodger; faix, it wouldn't be much worse than going back to your grandfather.”
“Why, you discontented old fool,” burst in Tom, “have n't you been teasing our souls out these ten years back by your stories of the fine life you led in the Chief Baron's house?”
“The eatin' was better, and the drinkin' was better,” said Nicholas, resolutely. “Wherever the devil it comes from, the small beer here bangs Banagher; but for the matter of temper he was one of yourselves! and by my sowl, it's a family not easily matched!”
“I agree with you; any other man than my father would have pitched you neck and crop into the Shannon years ago,—I 'll be shot if I would n't.”
“Mind them words. What you said there is a threat; it's what the law makes a constructive threat, and we 'll see what the Coorts say to it.”
“I declare, Nicholas, you would provoke any one; you will let no one be your friend,” said Lucy; and taking her brother's arm she led him away, while the old man, watching them till they entered the shrubbery, seated himself leisurely in a deep arm-chair, and wiped the perspiration from his forehead. “By my conscience,” muttered he, “it takes two years off my life every day I have to keep yez in order.”