“Now, you drunken old scoundrel,” said his master, catching him by the collar and flourishing the cane over his head, “if you don't give a direct answer I will cane you within an inch of your life. What do you mean when you say that Sir Robert Whitecraft won't come here to-day?”
“Becaise, sir, it isn't convanient to him.”
“Why isn't it convenient, you scoundrel?”
“Bekaise, sir, he took it into his head to try a change of air for the benefit of his health before he starts upon his journey; and as he got a very friendly invitation to spend some time in Sligo jail he accepted it, and if you go there you will find him before you. It seems he started this morning in great state, with two nice men belonging to the law in the carriage with him, to see that he should want for nothing, and a party of cavalry surroundin' his honor's coach, as if he was one of the judges, or the Lord Lieutenant.”
The figurative style of his narrative would unquestionably have caused him to catch the weight of the cane aforesaid had not Helen interfered and saved him for the nonce.
“Let me at him, Helen, let me at him—the drunken old rip; why does he dare to humbug us in this manner?”
“Well, then, sir, if you wish to hear the good news, and especially you, Miss Folliard, it will probably relieve your heart when I tell you that Sir Robert Whitecraft is, before this time, in the jail of Sligo, for a charge of murdher, and for burnin' Mr. Reilly's house and premises, which it now seems aren't Mr. Reilly's at all—nor ever were—but belong to Mr. Hastings.”
“Good heavens!” exclaimed the squire, “this is dreadful: but is it true, sirra?”
“Why, sir, if you go to his house you'll find it so.”
“Oh, papa,” said Helen, “surely they wouldn't hang him?”