“We shall be late, perhaps,” said Jack.
“You'll be in good time. As for me, I haven't been asked to dinner, so that when I drop you I 'll go down to the village.”
“Well, then, I 'll walk over and see you in the evening,” said Massingbred. “It seems to me—I don't know whether you are of the same opinion, though—but it seems strongly to me that you and I ought to be allies.”
“If I thought I was worthy—”
“Come, come, Scanlan, no modesty, old boy. You know you 're a devilish clever fellow, and you no more intend to pass your life cruising after petty-session practice in Galway, than I do to settle down here as under-gardener.”
“They 're all looking at us, sir, from the drawing-room window,” said Scanlan, in a cautious voice; “don't let us appear too confidential.” And at the same instant he extended his whip as though to point attention to some distant object, and seem as if he were describing the scenery.
“Shrewd dog it is,” muttered Massingbred in soliloquy, but taking good care to be overheard. “I 'll beat up your quarters, Scanlan, in a couple of hours or so,” said Massingbred, as he descended from the lofty “drag.”
Somewhat, but not very much, later than the time appointed, Jack Massingbred appeared in the small chamber of the “Crueskeen,”—the humble hostel on the roadside adjoining the demesne of Cro' Martin. Maurice Scanlan had made every preparation which the fluid resources of the house admitted to receive his guest, but they were not destined to be put in requisition.
“I have only come lest you should accuse me of forgetting you, Scanlan,” said Massingbred, as he stood in the doorway without removing his hat. “I 'm off to Oughter-ard, having made my adieux at Cro' Martin.”
“Left Cro' Martin, and for good!” exclaimed Scanlan.