“It's locked and bolted,” said Fardorougha; “as he sleeps in the barn I forgot that he was to come in here any more to-night—open it, Connor.”
“For the sake of all the money you keep in the house, father,” said Connor, smiling, “it's hardly worth your while to be so timorous; but God help the county treasurer if he forgot to bar his door—Asy, Bartle, I'm openin' it.”
Flanagan immediately entered, and, with all the importance of a confidant, took his seat at the fire.
“Well, Bartle,” said Connor, “what news?”
“Let the boy get his supper first,” said Honor; “Bartle, you must be starved wid hunger.”
“Faith, I'm middlin' well, I thank you, that same way,” replied Bartle; “divil a one o' me but's as ripe for my supper as a July cherry; an' wid the blessin' o' Heaven upon my endayvors I'll soon show you what good execution is.”
A deep groan from Fardorougha gave back a fearful echo to the truth of this formidable annunciation.
“Aren't you well, Fardorougha?” asked Bartle.
“Throth I'm not, Bartle; never was more uncomfortable in my life.”
Flanagan immediately commenced his supper, which consisted of flummery and new milk—a luxury among the lower ranks which might create envy in an epicure. As he advanced in the work of destruction, the gray eye of Fardorougha, which followed every spoonful that entered his mouth, scintillated like that of a cat when rubbed down the back, though from a directly opposite feeling. He turned and twisted on the chair, and looked from his wife to his son, then turned up his eyes, and appeared to feel as if a dagger entered his heart with every additional dig of Bartle's spoon into the flummery. The son and wife smiled at each other; for they could enjoy those petty sufferings of Fardorougha with a great deal of good-humor.