“Sure, where could I go?” said Mr Murphy.
“Go to America. Here’s a couple of sovereigns for you; and, see here, if you’ll make up your mind to cut the country I’ll help. Apply to me at No. 10A Merrion Square, Dublin, and I’ll pay your passage, and give you a fiver to start you.”
“Sure, what could I do in Amerika?” said Mr Murphy, pocketing the coins without a word of thanks.
“Do? Why, go on the stock exchange—no, go into politics, that’s your true position in life. You waste your time here. Well, I’m off—good-day.”
“Good-day to yiz,” replied the other. “Sure, it’s you I’d like to have at me elbow in a row.”
“Oh, I think you’re able to look after yourself;” said Mr Fanshawe, as he departed.
“I’m not a chicken,” replied the other. “Good-day to yiz. Come, Con, we’ve words to say to wan another.”
“O Dicky,” said Violet, when—having found each other by hallooing—they pressed their lips together, “I’m so frightened. Has he shot him?”
“No,” replied Mr Fanshawe, chuckling, “but he’s done nearly as bad. Come on, and let’s find the road; it’s half-past twelve, and that confounded luncheon will be kept waiting for us again.”