“They’re all beyant at the cattle dhrivin’,” said Patsy. “But, sure, a ridgment of police wouldn’t take Paddy whin the whisky’s got him.”
“See here, Patsy,” said Mr Fanshawe, “I mayn’t have time to say it later on, if you get into any trouble over this affair, you know who’s your friend. And I’m going to take you into my service anyhow, but I’ll arrange all that later on, when the row is over. Here’s a sovereign for you. I’m not going to give you any more at present, for you’d only be spending it on rubbish; but I’ll give you good wages when I take you on. And, see here, Patsy, you’d better get hold of that ear-trumpet to-morrow morning, when we are gone, and take the cork out. We don’t want the old lady to be deaf for ever.”
Dinner was a most trying function. To have to sit at the same table with a man who has called you a hound is somewhat of a tax on the appetite, even though the man is your uncle. After dinner came a game of billiards with Uncle Molyneux.
Coming out of the billiard-room at half-past ten, Mr Fanshawe heard General Grampound’s abusive voice.
The old gentleman was saying: “You’ll tell the groom to be here to time, so as to allow two hours for getting to the station, and the luggage-cart had better be here at six sharp.”
“Yes, sir,” replied Patsy’s voice.
Mr Fanshawe passed into the dining-room for a whisky and soda. He consumed three on the principle of the camel who has to face the desert.
At half-past eleven he went to his room.
At twelve, with two or three exceptions, the household was snoring.