“It is Master Shirley, Patrick, who wants to speak to you.”
On hearing the name of the visitor, Lary staggered up, and begged Josiah to be seated.
“No, Patrick,” replied Josiah, “as my business is one of a very unpleasant nature, I prefer standing.”
“With all humility, I suppose, Master Shirley,” said Pat, striving to be facetious; “but please yourself, you are a dear, good young gentleman, and must have your own way;” and, unable to keep his legs any longer, Lary sunk down, a dead weight, into his seat.
“But what do you want with Pat Lary, Master Shirley; some job in the garden, I suppose?”
“Nay, Patrick,” returned Josiah, not a little provoked at this speech; “thou wast determined to provide a long job at my expense, when thou left this hatchet in my garden;” and he produced the hatchet, and gave it into the hand of the bewildered Lary.
“This is my hatchet, sure enough, Master Shirley; but I am pretty certain I never left it in your garden.”
“Doubtlessly it was done unintentionally,” returned Josiah. “Those who commit bad actions seldom willingly leave a witness of their guilt.”
The Irishman coloured deeply, and, turning to Josiah, said, with great vehemence—
“I should be sorry to use unbecoming language, Master Shirley; but really I cannot comprehend what you mean.”