“Then that is your last word of all, Mr. Harrington?” said Ballymolloy, heaving his heavy body out of the easy-chair. But his voice, which had sounded somewhat irate during the discussion, again rolled out in mellifluous tones.
“Yes, Mr. Ballymolloy, that is all I have to say.”
“And indeed it’s not so very bad at all,” said Patrick. “You see I just wanted to see how far you were likely to go, because, though I’m a good Democrat, sir, I’m against free trade in the main points, and that’s just the truth. But if you say you will stand up for iron right through, and use your best judgment, why, I guess you’ll have to be senator after all. It’s a great position, Mr. Harrington, and I hope you’ll do honor to it.”
“I hope so, indeed,” said John. “Can I offer you a glass of wine, or anything else, Mr. Ballymolloy?”
“Indeed, and it’s dirty weather, too,” said Patrick. “Thank you, I’ll take a little whiskey.”
John poured out a glass.
“You won’t let me drink alone, Mr. Harrington?” inquired Patrick, holding his tumbler in his hand. To oblige him, after the manner of the country, John poured out a small glass of sherry, and put his lips to it. Ballymolloy drained the whiskey to the last drop.
“You were not really thinking I would vote for Mr. Jobbins, were you now, Mr. Harrington?” he asked, with a sly look on his red face.
“I always hope that the men of my party are to be relied upon, Mr. Ballymolloy,” said John, smiling politely.
“Very well, they are to be relied upon, sir. We are, every man of us, to the last drop of Christian blood in our blessed bodies,” said Patrick, with a gush of patriotic enthusiasm, at the same time holding out his heavy hand. Then he took his leave.