“His nest is better feathered than he deserves. He has two enormous livings, a good private fortune, and now, indeed, he must come to saddle himself upon the county in the shape of a job.”
“He has rendered good service, Mr. Hartley,” replied another of them; “good service to the government, sir, with every respect for your wonderful liberality and honesty.”
“What do you mean, sir?” asked Hartley, sternly; “do you throw out any imputation against my honor or my honesty?”
“Oh, Lord, no—by no means; I have no relish at all for your cold lead, Mr. Hartley—only that I don't think you stand the best chance in the world of being returned for Castle Cumber, sir—that is all.”
“Hartley,” asked another, with a loud laugh, “is it true that your cousin, on bringing a message to young Phil M'Clutchy, pulled his nose, and kicked him a posteriore round the room?”
“Ask his father, Dick,” said Hartley, smiling; “I have heard he was present, and, of course, he knows best.”
“I say, Vulture,” inquired the other, “is it true?”
“Ay,” returned old Deaker, “as true as the nose on your face. That precious Phil, was a cowardly whelp all his life—so was his father. D—n you, sirra; where did you get your cowardice? I'm sure it was not from me; that is if you be mine, which is a rather problematical circumstance; for I take it you are as likely to be the descent of some rascally turnkey or hatchman, and be hanged to you, as mine.”
“Is it true, Val,” persisted the former querist, “that young Hartley pulled Phil's nose?”
“We have come here for other purposes, Dick,” said Val. “Certainly Phil did not wish to strike the young man in his own house, and had more sense than to violate the peace in the presence of a magistrate, and that magistrate his own father.”