“Go to bed, sir; I tould you as you went out that you had taken rather too much. You've been disappointed, an' you're vexed;—that's what ails you; but go to bed, an' you'll sleep it off.”
“Yes, I must. In a day or two it's arranged that I and Travers are to settle about the leases, and I must meet that worthy gentleman with a clear head.”
“Is Darby Skinadre, sir, to have Dalton's farm?”
“Why, I've pocketed a hundred of his money for it, an' I think he ought. However, all this part of the property is out of lease, and you know we can neither do nor say anything till we get the new leases.”
“Oh, yes, you can, sir,” replied Hanlon, laughing; “it's clear you can do at any rate.”
“How is that? What do you grin at, confound you?”
“You can take the money, sir; that's what I mane by doin' him. Ha, ha, ha!”
“Very good, Charley; but I'm sick; and I very much fear that I've caught this confounded typhus.”
The next day being that on which the trial took place, he rose not from his bed; and when the time appointed for meeting Travers came he was not at all in anything of an improved condition. His gig was got ready, however, and, accompanied by Hanlon, he drove to the agent's office.
Travers was a quick, expert man of business, who lost but little time and few words in his dealings with the world. He was clear, rapid, and decisive, and having once formed an opinion, there was scarcely any possibility in changing it. This, indeed, was the worst and most impracticable point about him; for as it often happened that his opinions were based upon imperfect or erroneous data, it consequently followed that his inflexibility was but another name for obstinacy, and not unfrequently for injustice.