“Why, in troth, Eody, to tell you the truth if she could give it to me at any other time an' place, I'd prefer it. That Grey Stone is a wild place to be in at midnight.”
“It is a wild place; still it's there, an' nowhere else, that you must get the box. And now that the bargain's made, do you think it's thrue that this old Hendherson”—here he looked very cautiously about him—“has as much money as they say he has?”
“I b'lieve he's very rich.”
“It is thrue that he airs the bank notes in the garden here, and turns the guineas in the sun, for fraid—for fraid—they'd get blue-mowled—is it?”
“It may, for all I know; but it's more than I've seen yet.”
“An' now between you and me, Charley—whisper—I say, isn't it a thousand pities—nobody could hear us, surely?”
“Nonsense—who could hear us?”
“Well, isn't it a thousand pities, Charley, avia, that dacent fellows, like you and me, should be as we are, an' that mad ould villain havin' his house full 'o money? eh, now?”
“It's a hard case,” replied Hanlon, “but still we must put up with our lot. His father I'm tould was as poor in the beginnin' as either of us.”
“Ay, but it's the son we're spakin about—the ould tyrannical villain that dhrives an' harries the poor! He has loads of money in the house, they say—eh?”