“Flowers—Lord Mallow sent them flowers! Hell’s fiend, man, suppose he did?”
“There are better flowers here than in any Spanish Town.”
“Well, take them, Michael; but if you do, come here again no more while you live, for I’ll have none of you. Do you think I’m entering the lists against the king’s governor?”
“You’ve done it before, sir, and there’s no harm in doing it again. One good turn deserves another. I’ve also to tell you, sir, that Lord Mallow has asked them to stay at King’s House.”
“Lord Mallow has asked Americans to stay at King’s House!”
“But they’re Irish, and he knew them in Ireland, y ‘r honour.”
“Well, he knew me in Ireland, and I’m proscribed!”
“Ah, that’s different, as you know. There’s no war on now, and they’re only good American citizens who own land in this dominion of the king; so why shouldn’t he give them courtesy?”
“From whom do you get your information?” asked Dyck Calhoun with an air of suspicion.
“From Darius Boland, y’r honour,” answered Michael, with a smile. “Who is Darius Boland, you’re askin’ in y’r mind? Well, he’s the new manager come from the Llyn plantations in Virginia; and right good stuff he is, with a tongue that’s as dry as cut-wheat in August. And there’s humour in him, plenty-aye, plenty. When did I see him, and how? Well, I saw him this mornin’, on the quay at Kingston. He was orderin’ the porters about with an air—oh, bedad, an air! I saw the name upon the parcels—Miss Sheila Llyn, of Moira, Virginia, and so I spoke to him. The rest was aisy. He looked me up and down in a flash, like a searchlight playin’ on an enemy ship, and then he smiled. ‘Well,’ said he, ‘who might you be? For there’s queer folks in Jamaica, I’m told.’ So I said I was Michael Clones, and at that he doffed his hat and held out a hand. ‘Well, here’s luck,’ said he. ‘Luck at the very start! I’ve heard of you from my mistress. You’re servant to Mr. Dyck Calhoun—ain’t that it?’ And I nodded, and he smiled again—a smile that’d cost money anywhere else than in Jamaica. He smiled again, and give a slow hitch to his breeches as though they was fallin’ down. Why, sir, he’s the longest bit of man you ever saw, with a pointed beard, and a nose that’s as long as a midshipman’s tongue-dry, lean, and elastic. He’s quick and slow all at once. His small eyes twinkle like stars beatin’ up against bad weather, and his skin’s the colour of Scots grass in the dead of summer-yaller, he’d call it if he called it anything, and yaller was what he called the look of the sky above the hills. Queer way of talk he has, that man, as queer as—”