“Permitted!” repeated the other. “What do you menu?”
“I'm not permitted from above, sir, to prosecute this man. I'm not justified in it.”
“Quite ridiculous, O'Drive, where did you pick up this jargon of the conventicle—but that reminds me, by the by—you are not a convert to the Established Church. You belong to the Dissenters, and owe your change of opinions to Mr. M'Slime.”
“If I don't belong to the Established Church now, sir,” replied Darby, “I won't be long so.”
“Why,” inquired the other, “are you not satisfied with the denomination of Christians you have joined?”
“M'Slime, sir, converted me—as you say—but I've great objections—and between you and me, I, fear it's not altogether safe for any man to take his religion from an attorney.”
A smile, as much as he could condescend to, passed over the haughty, but dignified features of Mr. Lucre.
“O'Drive,” said he, “I did not think you possessed so much simplicity of character as I perceive you do—but touching the prosecution of this man—you must lodge information, forthwith. You shall bring the warrant to Mr. M'Clutchy who will back it, and put it into the hands of those who will lose little time in having it executed.”
“I am sorry, sir, that my conscience doesn't justify me in doin' what you wish.”
“What do you mean by conscience, sir?” asked the other, getting warm, “if you have a conscience you will have no scruple in punishing a man who is an open enemy to truth, to the gospel, and to the spread of it through a benighted land. How can you reconcile it to your conscience to let such a man escape.”