Sewell made a haughty gesture with his arm as though to say that he need not trouble himself on that head.
“Here's them cigars your honor gave me last week. I suppose I ought to hand them back, now that I 'm discharged and turned away.”
“You have discharged yourself, my good friend. With a civil tongue in your head, and ordinary prudence, you might have held on to your place till it was time to pension you out of it.”
“Then I crave your honor's pardon, and you 'll never have to find the same fault with me again. It was just breaking my heart, it was,—the thought of leaving your honor.”
“That's enough about it; go back to your duty. Mind your business; and take good care you never meddle with mine.”
“Has your honor any orders?” said O'Reardon, with his ordinary tone of respectful attention.
“Find out if Hughes is well enough to ride; they tell me he was worse yesterday. Don't bother me any more about that fellow that writes the attacks on the Chief Baron. They do the thing better now in the English papers, and ask nothing for it. Look out for some one who will advance me a little money,—even a couple of hundreds; and above all, track the old fellow who called at the office; find out what he 's in Ireland for, and how long he stays. I intend to go to the country this evening, so that you 'll have to write your report,—the post-town is Killaloe.”
“And if the ould man presses me hard,” said O'Reardon, with one eye knowingly closed, “your honor's gone over to England, and won't be back till the cock-shooting.”
Sewell nodded, and with a gesture dismissed the fellow, half ashamed at the familiarity that not only seemed to read his thoughts, but to follow them out to their conclusions.