O’Bla. It used to make five before I was in love.
Old McB. And will the same after you’re married and dead. What am I thinking of? A score of bullocks I had in the fair—half a score sold in my pocket, and owing half—that’s John Dolan, twelve pound tin—and Charley Duffy nine guineas and thirteen tin pinnies and a five-penny bit: stay, then, put that to the hundred guineas in the stocking at home.
O’Bla. (aside) How he makes my mouth water: (Aloud) May be, Matthew, I could, that am used to it, save you the trouble of counting?
Old McB. No trouble in life to me ever to count my money—only I’ll trouble you, sir, if you please, to lock that door; bad to be chinking and spreading money with doors open, for walls has ears and eyes.
O’Bla. True for you. (Rising, and going to lock the doors.)
{Old McBRIDE with great difficulty, and very slowly, draws out of his pocket his bag of money—looking first at one door, and then at the other, and going to try whether they are locked, before he unties his bag.}
Old McB. (spreads and counts his money and notes) See me now, I wrote on some scrap somewhere 59l. in notes—then hard cash, twinty pounds—rolled up silver and gould, which is scarce—but of a hundred pounds there’s wanting fourteen pounds odd, I think, or something that way; for Phil and I had our breakfast out of a one pound note of Finlay’s, and I put the change somewhere—besides a riband for Honor, which make a deficiency of fourteen pounds seven shillings and two pence—that’s what’s deficient—count it which way you will.
O’Bla. (going to sweep the money off the table) Oh! never mind the deficiency—I’ll take it for a hundred plump.
Old McB. (stopping him) Plump me no plumps—I’ll have it exact, or not at all—I’ll not part it, so let me see it again.
O’Bla. (aside with a deep sigh, almost a groan) Oh! when I had had it in my fist—almost: but ‘tis as hard to get money out of this man as blood out of a turnip; and I’ll be lost to-night without it.