“Ay, Val the Vulture—Val the Vulture—I like that fellow—like him for his confoundedly clever roguery; only he's a hypocrite, and doesn't set the world at defiance as I do;—no, he's a cowardly, skulking hypocrite, nearly as great a one as M'Slime, but doesn't talk so much about religion as that oily gentleman.”
In a few moments M'Clutchy entered. “Good morrow, Val. Well, Val—well, my Vulture, what's in the wind now? Who's to suffer? Are you ready for a pounce? Eh?”
“I was sorry to hear that your health's not so good, sir, as it was.”
“You lie, my dear Vulture, you lie in your throat, I tell you. You're watching for my carcase, snuffing the air at a distance under the hope of a gorge. No—you didn't care the devil had me, provided you could make a haul by it.”
“I hope sir, there's no——”
“Hope! You rascally hypocrite, what's hope good for? Hope to rot in the grave is it? To melt into corruption and feed the worms? What a precious putrid carcase I'll make, when I'm a month in the dirt. Maybe you wouldn't much relish the scent of me then, my worthy Vulture. Curse your beak, at all events! what do you want? what did you come for?”
Val, who knew his worthy sire well, knew also the most successful method of working out any purpose with him. He accordingly replied, conscious that hypocrisy was out of the question—
“The fact is, sir, I want you to aid me in a piece of knavery.”
“I'll do it—I'll do it. Hang me if I don't. Come—I like that—it shows that there's no mock modesty between us—that we know one another. What's the knavery?”
“Why, sir, I'm anxious, in the first place, to have Hickman, the head agent, out, and in the next, to get into his place, if possible. Now, I know that you can assist me in both, if you wish.”