“I don’t like the way things is going on,” said Sweeny. “What is it that’s up at the big house at all?”
“They tell me,” said Walsh, “that he’s a mighty high up gentleman whoever he is.”
“He may be, but I’d be glad if I knew what he’s doing here, for I don’t like the looks of him.”
Patsy the smith, pallid after the experience of the night before, walked into the shop.
“If Peter Walsh is there,” he said, “the sergeant is down about the quay looking for him.”
“You better go to him,” said Sweeny, “and mind now what you say to him.”
“You’ll not say much,” said Patsy the smith, “for he’ll have you whipped off into one of the cells in the barrack before you’ve time to speak. He’s terrible determined.”
Patsy’s face was yellow—a witness to the fact that his liver was still in him—and he was inclined to take a pessimistic view of life. Peter Walsh paid no attention to his prophecy. Sweeny looked anxious.
The sergeant was standing outside the door of Brannigan’s shop. He accosted Peter Walsh as soon as he caught sight of him.
“Sir Lucius bid me tell you,” he said, “that you’re to have the Tortoise ready for him at twelve o’clock, and that his lordship will be going with him, so he won’t be needing you in the boat.”