“Show me that, Meehaul.”
“Give her up, I say, an' then I may tell you.”
“Meehaul, good-night. Go home.”
They had now entered the principal street of the town, and as they proceeded in what appeared to be an earnest, perhaps a friendly conversation, many of their respective acquaintances, who lounged in the moonlight about their doors, were not a little surprised at seeing them in close conference. When Lamh Laudher wished him good night, he had reached an off street which led towards his father's house, a circumstance at which he rejoiced, as it would have been the means, he hoped, of terminating a dialogue that was irksome to both parties. He found himself, however, rather unexpectedly and rudely arrested by his companion.
“We can't part, Lamh Laudher,” said Meehaul seizing him by the collar, “'till this business is settled—I mane till you promise to give my sister up.”
“Then we must stand here, Meehaul, as long as we live—an' I surely won't do that.”
“You must give her up, man.”
“Must! Is it must from a Neil to a Lamh Laudher? You forgot yourself, Meehaul: you are rich now, an' I'm poor now; but any old friend can tell you the differ between your grandfather an' mine. Must, indeed!”
“Ay; must is the word, I say; an' I tell you that from this spot you won't go till you swear it, or this stick—an' it's a good one—will bring you to submission.”
“I have no stick, an' I suppose I may thank you for that.”