‘His lordship’s a gentleman!’ cried Blake. ‘By the Lord, he is! If only he could hold a dacent skinful o’ liquor, he’d be the finest gentleman in Ireland, bar none. And what did the Squireen say?’
‘He cursed the father that begot him,’ returned Conseltine. ‘He shook the dust of the house off his feet, and swore he’d never cross the threshold again!’
‘Then the boy’s like his father—a gentleman!’ cried Blake, with a drunken cheer. ‘Here’s to him, with three times three and all the honours! And what did the old man say to that?’
‘It has made him seriously ill,’ answered Conseltine. ‘He has passed the day in bed, and has refused himself to everybody except Peebles. Now, Blake,’ he leaned further across the table, and fixed his keen eyes on the face of the drunken squire, ‘the time has come for a definite understanding between us.’
‘Well?’ asked Blake. He made an obvious and partially successful attempt to sober himself. ‘Give me that jug o’ water.’ It was passed to him, and he drained it—to the great apparent refreshment and steadying of his wits. ‘A man has need of all his brains, Dick Conseltine, when ye speak in that tone of voice. Out with it—what hell-broth are ye brewing now?’
‘There’s no new development yet,’ answered Conseltine, with a smile, ‘though something may occur at any moment with Henry in his present condition. But I want to know definitely, yes or no, are you for us or against us?’
‘That just depends on how ye treat me,’ muttered Blake. ‘I don’t know whether it is that I’m getting old, or whether the whisky is playing false with my nerves—which is what I’d call my conscience, if I was one o’ the pious sort—or what it is, but I—I fluctuate! Sometimes—it’s generally in the morning, when I wake—I feel penitent: I feel that I’d like to go over to the enemy and clear my breast o’ the load I’ve borne this eighteen years and more. What are ye doin’?’ he asked angrily, as Conseltine trod heavily on his foot beneath the table. ‘Oh, the cub! Sure I said nothin’ that he has the brains to understand. Yes, Mr. Richard Conseltine, that’s how I feel at times, and it comes over me generally in the mornin’, when the whisky’s out and my pockets are empty. And, by thunder, if I did! if I did tell all I know—Holy Moses! what a racket it would make up at the Castle, and all Ireland over. Faith, I’d live in history! ’Twould be what the play-actors call a fine situation! And let me tell ye, there’s them as ’d make it worth me while to do it!’
‘You drunken hog!’ murmured Conseltine under his breath; adding aloud, ‘You won’t do that, Blake!’
‘Won’t I?’ returned Blake. ‘Faith, you’re surer about it than I am!’
‘No,’ said Conseltine, ‘you won’t do it. I can make it better worth your while to keep silent.’