Three or four cars and carts were all that Val found at home on his arrival there—a circumstance which, added to his recent disappointment touching Deaker—from whom he had, in fact, to the last, cherished secret expectations—inflamed his resentment against M'Loughlin almost beyond all conception.
On leaving Constitution Cottage for M'Loughlin's, he was not a little surprised to see worthy Phil walking, backward, and forward on the lawn, accompanied by no less a personage than our friend Raymond-na-hattha.
“Ah,” said he to Phil, looking at him and Raymond, “there's a pair of you.”
“Never mind, old fellow,” said Phil with a grin, “you don't know what's ahead—a pretty bit of goods; begad, father, Raymond's a jewel:—ah, you don't know her, but I do—hip, hip, old cook.”
“Phil,” said Val, “you have been at the brandy; I see it in your eye, and I hear it in your speech.”
“Well,” said Phil, “I have, and what then—that's the chat; who's afraid, M'Clutchy?”
“Phil, Phil,” said the father, “this won't do.”
“I say it will do, and it must do,” returned the son—“but harkee, old cock, is Deaker, the precious, d——d yet?”
“If ever man was,” replied his father—“and not a penny to either of us, Phil; not as much as would jingle on his own lying tombstone, and a lying one it will be no doubt. Did you get the affidavits prepared?”
“I did, but curse the rascals, I was obliged to make them drunk before they would consent to swear them. The truth is, I put in a lot of stuff out of my own head,” said Phil, “and they refused to swear to it until I made them blind.”