“Saul, sir, it's a question I never speered at him. He cam' here as a gaberlunzie, and on stating that he was indoctrinated in the sceence o' buttany, his honor garred me employ him. De'il hae't but the truth I'll tell—he's a clever buttanist, and knows a' the sceentific names aff hand.”
“So that's all you know about him?” said Sir Robert. “He has a devil of a beard, and is shockingly dressed. Why doesn't he shave?”
“Ou, just some Papistry nonsense,” replied the gardener; “but we hae naething to do wi' that, sae lang's we get the worth o' our siller out o' him.”
“Here's a shilling, Malcomson,” said Sir Robert.
“Na, na, your honor; a shilling's no for a man that understands the sceence o' buttany: a shilling's for a flunky in livery; but as for me, I couldna conscientiously condescend upon less than ten o' them, or may be a pund British, but I'm feart that's contrair to your honor's habits.”
“Well, then,” said Sir Robert, “I have no more silver, and so I leave you to the agreeable society of Robinson Crusoe.”
Reilly had watched Sir Robert's motions, as well as his countenance, in a manner as furtively as possible. Sometimes, indeed, he stared at him broadly, and with a stupid, oafish look, and again placed himself in such a position behind the range of flower-pots which were placed upon the ledges, that he could observe him without being perceived himself. The force of habit, however, is extraordinary. Our hero was a man exceedingly remarkable for personal cleanliness, and consequently made a point to wash his hands morning and evening with peculiar care. Be this as it may, the lynx eye of Sir Robert observed their whiteness, and he instantly said to himself, “This is no common laborer; I know that he is not, from the whiteness of his hands. Besides, he is disguised; it is evident from the length of his beard, and the unnecessary coarseness of his apparel. Then his figure, the symmetry and size of which no disguise can conceal; this, and everything else, assures me that he is disguised, and that he is, besides, no other individual than the man I want, William Reilly, who has been hitherto my evil genius; but it shall go hard with me, or I shall be his now.” Such were his meditations as he passed along with the squire to join him at lunch.
When they had left the garden, Reilly addressed his Cooleen Bawn as follows:
“Helen, I am discovered.”
“Discovered! O my God, no!”