“Divil a cint iv yer money do I want,” replied the boy, with a shrug of his shoulders.
“What! Don’t you want it?”
“Divil a cint,” he repeated, firmly.
“Why, what has come over you?” asked McCabe, in surprise.
“A faylin’ iv remorse for phat I’ve been an’ done,” answered Mike, moodily, beginning to dig his heel into the ground. “It’s yer own cousin I am, Jamie, on me mother’s side iv the house, but, begorra, ye’ve made me hate yeez like a kitten hates a wet floor.”
“Why so, Mike? What the deuce are you whining about?”
“Faith! don’t I have enough throuble to make me whine? Didn’t yeez do an awful wicked thing, sure, and didn’t yeez make a tool iv me to work yersilf out iv the scrape wid yer life? That ye did, ye bla’guard, an’ av it wasn’t yer own cousin I am, I should niver have done it, at all, at all. Bad ’cess to yeez for takin’ advantage iv me youth, an’ our relationship, to wheedle me into this wickedness. I’ve a great mind to confess all, an’ let ’em sthring ye up be the neck iv yeez; it’s desarvin’ it, ye are.”
Jim McCabe began to exhibit signs of alarm.
“See here, you little fool,” he hissed, grasping the boy’s arm, “you must exercise better judgment than this, or things will be brought to a pretty pass. The man is dead; both are dead, and it is too late now to remedy the matter. All you have to do is to keep your mouth, and all will be well; but let contrition bring you to a confession of your guilt, and, just so surely as you stand before me now, you will hang!”
“Not I, Jamie.”