“But, Paddy, what does he do for you?” asked the agent.
“Why, sir,” replied Corrigan, “he gives: me a cast-off wig once a year, God bless him!—This is his I have on me. Throth, ever since I began to wear them I feel a strong-relish for beef and mutton, and such fine feedin'; but somehow, God forgive me, I! haven't the same leanin' to devotion that I used to have.”
“Paddy, my old boy,” said Phil, “that alters the case altogether. I thought the wig was as Popish as yourself; but had I known that it was a staunch and constitutional concern, of sound High Church principle, I should have treated it with respect. I might have known, indeed, that it could not be a Popish one, Paddy, for I see it has the thorough Protestant curl.”
The father looked at Phil, to ascertain whether he was serious or not, but so unmeaning or equivocal was the expression of his countenance that he could make nothing out of it.
“You are reasoning,” said Solomon, “upon wrong, certainly not upon purely gospel principles, Phil. The wig at this moment has a great deal more of Popery in it than ever it had of Protestantism.”
“And, if I'm not much mistaken, more honesty, too,” observed Val, who had not forgotten the opposition he received in the grand jury room by Lucre's friends; nor the fact that the same reverend gentleman had taken many fat slices of his mouth on several other occasions.
“Well, then, confound the wig,” said Phil, “and that's all I have to say about it.”
Paddy then paid his rent, and having received a receipt, was about to go, when Val thus addressed him:—“Paddy, I hope you will not hesitate to give up that farm of yours at Slatbeg; I told you before that if you do, I'll be a friend to you for life.”
“I'll sell it, sir,” said Paddy; “but surely you wouldn't have me to give up my interest in such a farm as that.”
“I'll make it up to you in other ways,” said Val; “and I'll mention you besides to Lord Cumber.”