“Has Willy come back from Cork yet?” O’Neill asked, turning to look at where his men were working as he spoke. “I heard that he was there yesterday.”
There was no use in trying to conceal a fact that would soon become common property.
“Yes,” I answered, in a constrained voice, “he came home last night, but not to stay; he—he went away again this morning.”
“Ah!” said O’Neill, still watching the sawing and chopping of the fallen tree; “has he gone away for long?”
“Yes; I am afraid he has.”
“Gone to England, has he?” pursued O’Neill, running his pudgy hand along my horse’s neck.
“No,” I replied unwillingly; “at least, I believe he is going there first.”
“Then he is going to emigrate?” O’Neill said quickly, forgetting his endeavour to appear ignorant, and looking at me through his eye-glass with undisguised excitement.
I made no answer.
“The fact is,” O’Neill went on, clearing his throat, “I heard some rumour that he had got into trouble; but I hoped it might not have been true. These people,” with a glance at his workmen, “delight in exaggerating, especially if it is bad news.”