I knew the voice well, it was Peter McCabe’s; but I pretended to be fast asleep, and snored loudly. At last my father unbolted the door, and I heard him say—
“Oh, Mr. Peter, what’s the matter? is the ould man worse?”
“Faix! that’s what he is, for he’s dead!”
“Glory be his bed! when did it happen?”
“About an hour ago,” said Peter, in a voice that even I from my corner could perceive was greatly agitated. “He died like an ould haythen, Con, and never made a will!”
“That’s bad,” said my father; for he was always a polite man, and said whatever was pleasing to the company.
“It is bad,” said Peter; “but it would be worse if we couldn’t help it. Listen to me now, Conny, I want ye to help me in this business; and here’s five guineas in goold, if ye do what I bid ye. You know that ye were always reckoned the image of my father, and before he took ill ye were mistaken for each other every day of the week.”
“Anan!” said my father; for he was getting frightened at the notion, without well knowing why.
“Well, what I want is, for ye to come over to the house and get into the bed.”
“Not beside the corpse?” said my father, trembling.