“They 're sending me out of the way, your honor, for a week or two, to prevent that ould man I arrested charging me with parjury. That's what they purtend, sir,” said he, in a lower voice. “But the truth is, that I know more than they like, ay, and more than they think; for it was in my house at Cullen's Wood that the Lord-Liftenant himself came down, one evening, and sat two hours with this ould man.”
“Keep these sort of tales for other people, Master O'Reardon; they have no success with me. You are a capital terrier for rat-hunting, but you cut a sorry figure when you come out as a boar-hound. Do you understand me?”
“I do, sir, right well. Your honor means that I ought to keep to informations against common people, and not try my hand against the gentlemen.”
“You 've hit it perfectly. It's strange enough how sharp you can be in some things, and what a cursed fool in others.”
“You never was more right in your life, sir. That's my character in one sentence;” and he gave a little plaintive sigh, as though the thought were a painful one.
“And how do you mean to employ your leisure, Mr. O'Reardon? Men of your stamp are never thoroughly idle. Will you write your memoirs?”
“Indeed, no, your honor; it might hurt people's feelings the names I 'd have to bring in; and I 'm just going over to France for the present.”
“To France?”
“Yes, sir; Mr. Harman's tuk heart o' grace, and is going to sue for a divorce, and he 's sending me over to a place called Boulogne to get up evidence against the Captain.”
“You like that sort of thing?”