“Yes, and I have four fellows after him, along the shore here, but they say he 's cunning as a fox. Well, I 'll not give him up in a hurry, that's all. Is that rain I hear against the glass, Mick?”
“Ay, and dreadful rain too!” said the other, peeping through the window, which now rattled and shook with a sudden squall of wind. “You 'll not be able to leave this so late.”
“So I 'm thinking, Mick,” said Nickie, laying down his writing-materials, and turning his back to the fire; “I believe I must stay where I am.”
“'T is yourself is the boy!” cried Mick, with a look of admiration at his master.
“You 're wrong, Mick,” said he, with a scarce repressed smile, “all wrong; I wasn't thinking of her.”
“Maybe not,” said M'Dermot, shaking his head doubtfully; “maybe she's not thinking of you this minute! But, afther all, I don't know how ye 'll do it. Any one would say the vardic was again you.”
“So it is, man, but can't we move for a new trial?” So saying, he turned suddenly about, and pulled the bell.
M'Dermot said nothing, but stood staring at his chief, with a well-feigned expression of wonderment, as though to say, “What is he going to do next?”
The summons was speedily answered by old Tate, who stood in respectful attention within the door. Not the slightest suspicion had crossed the butler's mind of Mr. Nickie's calling, or of his object with the Knight, or his manner would certainly have displayed a very different politeness. “Didn't you ring, sir?” said he, with a bow to Nickie, who now seemed vacillating, and uncertain how to proceed.
“Yes—I did—ring—the—bell,” replied he, hesitating between each word of the sentence. “I was about to say that, as the night was so severe,—a perfect hurricane it seems,—I should remain here. Eh, did you speak?”