“I cannot have patience, Hycy,” he exclaimed, “under such scoundrelly language as this; and while I have breath in my body, he never shall have my vote!”
“What's the matter, Bryan?” he asked; “you seem flushed.”
“I do, Hycy, because I am flushed, and not without reason. I tell you that my landlord, Chevydale, is a scoundrel, and Fethertonge a deceitful villain.”
“Pooh, man, is that by way of information? I thought you had something in the shape of novelty to tell me. What has happened, however, and why are you in such a white heat of indignation?”
M'Mahon immediately detailed the conversation which he had overheard behind the bar of the inn, and we need scarcely assure our readers that Hycy did not omit the opportunity of throwing oil upon the fire which blazed so strongly.
“Bryan,” said he, “I know the agent to be a scoundrel, and what is nearer the case still, I have every reason—but you must not ask me to state them yet,—I have every reason to suspect that it is Fethertonge, countenanced by Chevydale, who is at the bottom of the distillation affair that has ruined you. The fact is, they are anxious to get you out of Ahadarra, and thought that by secretly ruining you, they could most plausibly effect it.”
“I have now no earthly doubt of it, Hycy,” replied the other.
“You need not,” replied Hycy; “and maybe I'm not far astray when I say, that the hook-nosed old Still-hound, Clinton, is not a thousand miles from the plot. I could name others connected with some of them—but I wont, now.”
When M'Mahon recollected the conversation which both Clinton and the agent had held with him, with respect to violating the law, the truth of Hycy's remark flashed upon him at once, and of course deepened his indignation almost beyond endurance.
“They are two d—d scoundrels,” pursued Hycy, “and I have reasons, besides, for suspecting that it was their wish, if they could have done it successfully, to have directed your suspicions against myself.”