Awkward as was the moment, it was relieved by the company filling their glasses and nodding in most friendly fashion to Massingbred as they drank his health; while a low murmur of approbation went round the table, of which he was most unmistakably the object.
“Are you fond of shooting, sir?” asked Brierley. “Well, then, I hope you'll not leave the country without giving me a day or two up at my little place in the mountains: There's some snipe left; and, upon my conscience, I'll be proud to see you at Kilmaccud.”
“And there's worse quarters, too!” broke in Magennis. “My 'august leader' spent a day and a half there.”
“I'll drive you over there myself,” whispered Father Neal, “if you'll finish the week at the 'Rookery,'—that's what they call the priest's house.”
Massingbred accepted everything, and shook hands across the table in ratification of half a dozen engagements.
“You don't think I'll let you cheat me out of my guest so easily,” said Nelligan. “No, gentlemen. This must be Mr. Massingbred's head-quarters as long as he stays here, for, faith, I 'd not give him up to Mr. Martin himself.”
“And who may he be?” asked Jack.
“Martin of Cro' Martin.”
“The owner of half the county.”
“Of the town you 're in, this minute.”