‘Blake,’ said Conseltine, ‘I want to talk to you. Did ye ever think of emigration?’
‘Did I ever think o’ what?’ asked Blake, pausing with his tumbler half-way to his lips.
‘Emigration,’ repeated Conseltine.
‘I never did,’ returned Blake. ‘Why would I?’
‘Well,’ said his companion, ‘there are many reasons why ye might think of it. Ye’re just spoiling here—wasting yourself. If ye’d go out West, a man of your abilities, with a little capital, would do well. Land and hiring are cheap; it’s a lovely climate, and there are no end of chances of making money. I’ll tell ye what, now. ’Tis a sin and a shame to see a man like you wasting yourself in this cursed country. I’ll make that two hundred five, and pay your passage out, if ye’ll take the next steamer to New York.’
‘By the saints!’ cried Blake, ‘ye’re mighty generous all of a sudden. Ye want to get rid of me? Spake the truth, now, isn’t that it?’
‘Well,’ said Conseltine, with a great appearance of candour, ‘that is it! I’d rather have you out of the country. You’re dangerous here, Blake—dangerous to us and to yourself.’
‘To myself!’ echoed Blake. ‘And how am I dangerous to meself?’
‘Ye’ll be splitting some day on a certain matter that we know of—easy now, we needn’t name names—and if ye did speak, ’twould be worse for you than for us.’
‘Make that good,’ said Blake.