“Just, your honor, to drink the glorious, pious, and immoral mimory! hip, hip, hurra!”
“And how can you drink it, you rascal, and you a papist?” asked Phil, still highly delighted with Darby's loyalty. “What would your priest say if he knew it?”
“Why,” said Darby, quite unconscious of the testimony he was bearing to his own duplicity, “sure they can forgive me that, along with my other sins. But, any how, I have a great notion to leave them and their ralligion altogether.”
“How is that, you scoundrel?” asked Val.
“Yes, you scoundrel; how is that?” added Phil.
“Why, troth,” replied Darby, “I can't well account for it myself, barrin' it comes from an enlightened conscience. Mr. M'Slime gave me a tract, some time ago, called Spiritual Food for Babes of Grace, and I thought in my own conscience, afther readin' it carefully over, that it applied very much to my condition.”
“Ah!” said Phil, “what a babe you are! but no matter; I'm glad you have notions of becoming a good sound Protestant; take my word there's nothing like it. A man that's a good sound Protestant is always a loyal fellow, and when he's drunk, drinks—to hell with the Pope.”
“Phil, don't be a fool,” said his father, who inherited many, if not all of old Deaker's opinions. “If you are about to become a Protestant, Darby, that's a very different thing from changing your religion—inasmuch as you must have one to change first. However, as you say, M'Slime's your man, and be guided by him.”
“So I intend, sir; and he has been spakin' to me about comin' forrid publicly, in regard of an intention he has of writin' a new tract consarning me, to be called the Converted Bailiff, or a Companion to the Religious Attorney; and he says, sir, that he'll get us bound up together.”
“Does he?” said Val, dryly; “strung up, I suppose he means.”