“Aisy, sir, aisy,” said the tenacious and vacillating old knave. “Aisy, I say. You will be generous, at any rate; for you know their value. How much will you give me for the papers I spake of—that is, in case I could get them for you?”
“Not sixpence. A friend has just returned from France, who—no,” thought he, “I will not state a falsehood—Good-day, Mr. Corbet; I am wasting my time.”
“One minute, sir—one minute. It may be worth your while.”
“Yes; but you trifle with me by these reluctant and penurious communications.”
Anthony had laid down his head upon his hands, whose backs were supported by the table; and in this position, as' if he were working himself into an act of virtue sufficient for a last effort, he remained until the stranger began to wonder what he meant. At length he arose, went up stairs as on a former occasion, but with less—and not much less—hesitation and delay; he returned and handed him the identical documents of which M'Bride had deprived him. “Now,” said he, “listen to me. You know the value of these; but that isn't what I want to spake to you about.—Whatever you do about the widow's son, don't do it without lettin' me know, and consultin' me—ay, and bein' guided by me; for although you all think yourselves right, you may find, yourselves in the wrong box still. Think of this now, and it will be better for you. I'm not sure, but I'll open all your eyes yet, and that before long; for I believe the time has come at last. Now that I've given you these papers,” (extracted, by the way, from M'Bride's pockets during his drunkenness, by Ginty Cooper, on the night she dogged him,) “you must promise me one thing.”
“What is that?”
“I suppose you know where this boy is? Now, when you're goin' to find him, will you bring me with you?”
“Why so?”
“It'll plaise an ould man, at any rate; but there may be other raisons. Will, you do this?”
The stranger, concluding that the wisest tiring was to give him his way, promised accordingly, and. the old man seemed somewhat satisfied.