“Ay,” replied Corbet, with one of his usual grins, “you volunteered to be generous to a profligate, who drank it, and took to the army.”
“Do you then volunteer to be generous to an honest man; I will neither drink It nor take to the army. If he took to the army, he didn't do so without taking your daughter along with him. I spoke to Sir Edward Gourlay, who threatened to write to his colonel; and through the interference of the same humane gentleman I got permission for him to bring his wife along with him. These are circumstances that you ought not to forget, Anthony.”
“I don't forget them, but sure you're always in somebody's affairs; always goin' security for some of your poor parishioners; and then, when they're not able to pay, down comes the responsibility upon you.”
“I cannot see a poor honest man, struggling and industrious, at a loss for a friendly act. No; I never could stand it, so long as I had it in my power to assist him.”
“And what's wrong now, if it's a fair question?”
“Two or three things; none of them very large, but amounting in all to about fifty guineas.”
“Whew!—fifty guineas!”
“Ay, indeed; fifty guineas, which you will lend me on my own security.”
“Fifty guineas to you? Don't I know you? Why, if you had a thousand, let alone fifty, it's among the poor o' the parish they'd be afore a week. Faith, I know you too well Father Peter.”
“You know me, man alive—yes, you do know me; and it is just because you do that I expect you will lend me the money. You wouldn't wish to see my little things pulled about and auctioned; my laughy little library gone; nor would you wish to see me and poor Freney the Robber separated. Big Ruly desaved me, the thief; but I found him out at last. Money I know is a great temptation, and so is mate when trusted to a shark like him; but any way, may the Lord pardon the blackguard! and that's the worst I wish him.”