"I thought you were going to have a smoke for yourself, Mr. Crowley?"
"H'm, so did I, meself," returned Pat.
"And why don't you? I don't object."
"Och divil a thing but smoke was in the insthrument, bad luck to it,—however sir, as ye say ye carry the tabakky about wid ye, take a loan o' the pipe an' welcome, for 'twould never be Pat Crowley, 'ud sit down with that in his pocket, that could make another man happy, and him not wantin' it nayther."
The hint had the desired affect. Guy's face broke into a broad smile, as the true meaning of the words showed itself.
"I have the tobacco he said, and no pipe as you suspect, and your moral is mine, too Crowley, so here's the tobacco and use your pipe to the best of its advantages old fellow."
As Crowley's gratified smile wrinkled over his face and rested in emphatic creases around his eyes, he readjusted the dwarfed pipe between his sallow teeth, and Guy heard him mutter, as he leaned forward to rest the lines, while he rubbed the little shavings between his brawny hands. "Ye're a dacent mother's son, ivery inch o'you, so ye are."
When the curling clouds of smoke, piled upwards over Crowley's head from Guy's good tobacco, the "nag" was touched up, with a multiplied emphasis on the technical snack, and was kept trotting to the utmost limit of her lazy agility during the remainder of the drive. Crowley must have repented his own surliness in the stingy information he gave, respecting the place they were driving to, for, settling himself in a safe heap on the leather cushion of his semi-respectable conveyance, he began:
"This house, yer honor, that we're dhrivin to, mebbe, you'd like to know, now that I do remember that I know somethin' of it, 'tis the natest little hole in Quaybec, though I don't think many knows much about it, ye see, it doesn't belong to any reg'lar nuns, them allays does good, and so does these, although they remind me more of the 'old maid,' they live in what they call 'volunthry sayclusion,' an faith it don't matther a hang to the world what they live in, I belave there's no love lost between 'em an' the world, leastways no one knows where they came from, an' there's not manny as tries to find out, they do be singin' an' prayin' an' carryin' on wid all sorts o' religis capers, and in troth, I think meself, that Pat Crowley's battered ould sowl 'ud look as fine in Heaven any day, that is, if it ever gets there."
"I daresay, Pat," Guy answered, "you are a very good man no doubt."