“Well, what do you want?” gruffly demanded the man, as the boy seized his arm to prevent him from passing on.
“An’ is it that same quistion ye’d be askin’, sure? Phat w’u’d I be afther wantin’ but money?”
“I haven’t any money,” declared McCabe, angrily.
“I know yeez have,” asserted the boy, firmly, “an’ be gorra, ef yeez don’t give it to me, sorry the day yer honor iver timpted me to desart me colors, intirely. Av I wasn’t yer cousin, Jamie, I should niver have done that wicked thing, no more w’u’d I. An’ av it was all to do over, it isn’t the likes iv Mike Terry that ’ud play false to a kind masther for love or money. For Doctor Trafford and Masther Russell were good to me, Jamie, an’ but for you—”
“Hush, Mike,” continued the man, glancing uneasily around. “Have you gone crazy, or do you wish to expose me?”
“I ain’t carin’ much phat I do. Av yeez don’t kape me in money I won’t hold yer saycret a day longer; divil a bit will I. Ye’ve med a bad b’y iv me, Jamie, an’ ye’re me own cousin, too.”
“Here; take this, boy,” said the angry man, handing him a coin, “and for heaven’s sake let it seal your lips. I can’t afford to give you money every day. Now go.”
So Jim McCabe and Mike Terry parted, both of them looking very much discontented as they walked away in opposite directions.
When they were well gone, a man rose from behind a pile of logs within a few feet of the spot where they had stood conversing. It was the man of the bandaged eye and red, straggling beard, of whom we made mention in the foregoing chapter, and as he strode away, dragging his gun after him, his face was still expressionless.
The eavesdropper was Nick Robbins.