But it was long before Ould Michael would talk. He sat in silence while his friend discoursed to him about the folly of allowing Paddy to deceive him with bad whisky. Surely any man could tell the bad from the good.
"It is deplorable stuff altogether, and it will not be good for Paddy when I see him."
"Och!" burst out Ould Michael at last, "it is not the whisky at all, at all."
"Ay, that is a great part of it, whatever."
"Och! me hea-art is broke, me hea-art is broke," groaned Ould Michael.
"Hoots, man! is it for the p'stoffice? That was not much worth to any man."
But Ould Michael only shook his head. It was hopeless to try to make such a man appreciate his feelings. McFarquhar rambled on, making light of the whole affair. The loss could only be very trifling. A man could make much more out of anything else. Poor Ould Michael bore it as long as he could and then, rising to his feet, cried out:
"Howly mither av Moses! an' have ye no hea-art inside av ye at all, at all? 'Tis not the money; the money is dirt!"
Here McFarquhar strongly dissented. Ould Michael heeded him not, but poured out his bitterness and grief. "For twinty years and more did I folly the flag in all lands and in all climates, wid wounds all over me body, an' medals an' good conduct sthripes an'—an' all that; an' now, wid niver a word av complaint or explanashun, to be turned aff like a dog an' worse."
Then the matter-of-fact McFarquhar, unable to understand these sentimental considerations, but secretly delighted that he had got Ould Michael to unbosom himself, began to draw him.