“He’s not been very well lately,” replied Morris; “he’s staying at Browndean; John is nursing him; and I am alone, as you see.”
Michael smiled to himself. “I want to see him on particular business,” he said.
“You can’t expect to see my uncle when you won’t let me see your father,” returned Morris.
“Fiddlestick,” said Michael. “My father is my father; but Joseph is just as much my uncle as he’s yours; and you have no right to sequestrate his person.”
“I do no such thing,” said Morris doggedly. “He is not well, he is dangerously ill and nobody can see him.”
“I’ll tell you what, then,” said Michael. “I’ll make a clean breast of it. I have come down like the opossum, Morris; I have come to compromise.”
Poor Morris turned as pale as death, and then a flush of wrath against the injustice of man’s destiny dyed his very temples. “What do you mean?” he cried, “I don’t believe a word of it!” And when Michael had assured him of his seriousness, “Well, then,” he cried, with another deep flush, “I won’t; so you can put that in your pipe and smoke it.”
“Oho!” said Michael queerly. “You say your uncle is dangerously ill, and you won’t compromise? There’s something very fishy about that.”
“What do you mean?” cried Morris hoarsely.