Nelligan paused, and seemed to reflect over the proposition.
“You 'll be quizzing the Englishman,—'taking a rise' out of the Saxon, Brierley?” said Nelligan, distrustfully.
“Devil a bit; I know better manners than that!”
“Tom Magennis would have at him about politics; I know he could n't refrain. And I need n't tell you that English notions are not ours upon these topics.”
“Give Tom a hint, and he 'll never touch the subject.”
“And Father Neal, will you vouch for him that he won't attack the Established Church, and abuse the Protestants?”
“That I will, if he's not provoked to it.”
“Can you answer for yourself, Mat Brierley, that you won't try to borrow a five-pound note of him before the evening's over?” said Nelligan, laughingly.
“I' ve a friend here,” said Brierley, tapping the other on the breast, “that would never see me in want of such a trifle as that.”
Nelligan made no other reply to this speech than a somewhat awkward grimace, and walked hurriedly on to overtake a tall and very fat man that was just turning the corner of the street. This was Father Neal Rafferty. A very flourishing wave of his reverence's hand, and an urbane bend of his body, betokened the gracious acceptance he gave to the other's invitation; and Brierley walked away, muttering to himself: “They may thank me for this dinner, then; for old Dan was going to feed the 'swells,' if I had n't stopped him.”