The Black Baronet; or, The Chronicles Of Ballytrain. William Carleton

send the radical heat to the very ends of your nails—I never take more than a single tumbler after my dinner, but that's my choice.”

      The stranger then joined him in a glass of sherry, and they proceeded to Mr. Birney's.

CHAPTER XII. Crackenfudge Outwitted by Fenton

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—The Baronet, Enraged at His Daughter's Firmness, strikes Her.

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      Crackenfudge, who was completely on the alert to ascertain if possible the name of the stranger, and the nature of his business in Ballytrain, learned that Fenton and he had had three or four private interviews, and he considered it very likely that if he could throw himself in that wild young fellow's way, without any appearance of design, he might be able to extract something concerning the other out of him. In the course, then, of three or four days after that detailed in our last chapter, and we mention this particularly, because Father M'Mahon was obliged to write to Dublin, in order to make inquiries touching the old man's residence to whom he had undertaken to give the stranger a letter—in the course, we say, of three or four days after that on which the worthy priest appears in our pages, it occurred that Crackenfudge met the redoubtable Fenton in his usual maudlin state, that is to say, one in which he could be termed neither drunk nor sober. We have said that Fenton's mind was changeful and unstable; sometimes evincing extraordinary quietness and civility, and sometimes full of rant and swagger, to which we may add, a good deal of adroitness and tact. In his most degraded state he was always known to claim a certain amount of respect, and would scarcely hold conversation with any one who would not call him Mr. Fenton.

      On meeting Fenton, the worthy candidate for the magistracy, observing the condition he was in, which indeed was his usual one, took it for granted that his chance was good. He accordingly addressed him as follows:

      “Fenton,” said he, “what's the news in town?”

      “To whom do you speak, sirra?” replied Fenton, indignantly. “Take off your hat, sir, whenever you address a gentleman.”

      “Every one knows you're a gentleman, Mr. Fenton,” replied Crackenfudge; “and as for me, a'd be sorry to address you as anything else.”

      “I'm sorry I can't return the compliment, then,” said Fenton; “everyone knows you're anything but a gentleman, and that's the difference between us. What piece of knavery have you on the anvil now, my worthy embryo magistrate?”

      “You're severe this morning, Mr. Fenton; a' don't think a' ever deserved that at your hands. But come, Mr. Fenton, let us be on good terms. A' acknowledge you are a gentleman, Mr. Fenton.”

      “Take care,” replied Fenton, “and don't overdo the thing neither. Whether is it the knave or fool predominates in you to-day, Mr. Crackenfudge?”

      “A' hope a'm neither the one nor the other,” replied the embryo magistrate. “A' hope a'm not, Mr. Fenton.”

      “I believe, however, you happen to be both,” said Fenton; “that's a fact as well known, my good fellow, as the public stocks there below; and if Madam Fame reports aright, it's a pity you should be long out of them. Avaunt, you upstart! Before the close of your life, you will die with as many aliases as e'er a thief that ever swung from a gallows, and will deserve the swing, too, better than the thief.”

      “A' had a right to change my name,” replied the other, “when a' got into property. A' was ashamed of my friends, because there's a great many of them poor.”

      “Invert the tables, you misbegotten son of an elve,” replied Fenton; “'tis they that are ashamed of you; there is not one among the humblest of them but would blush to name you. So you did not uncover, as I desired you; but be it so. You wish to let me, sir, who am a gentleman, know, and to force me to say, that there is a knave under your hat. But come, Mr. Crackenfudge,” he continued, at once, and by some unaccountable impulse, changing his manner, “come, my friend Crackenfudge, you must overlook my satire. Thersites' mood has past, and now for benevolence and friendship. Give us your honest hand, and bear not malice against your friend and neighbor.”

      “You must have your own way, Mr. Fenton,” said Crackenfudge, smiling, or assuming a smile, and still steady as a sleuthhound to his purpose.

      “Where now are you bound for, oh, benevolent and humane Crackenfudge?”

      “A' was jist thinking of asking this strange fellow—”

      “Right, O Crackenfudgius! that impostor is a fellow; or if you prefer the reverse of the proposition, that fellow is an impostor. I have found him out.”

      “A' hard,” replied Crackenfudge, “that he and you were on rather intimate terms, and—”

      “And so as being my companion, you considered him a fellow! Proceed, Crackenfudgius.”

      “No, not at all; a' was thinkin' of makin' his acquaintance, and paying some attention to him; that is, if a' could know who and what he is.”

      “And thou shalt know, my worthy mock magistrate. I am in a communicative humor to-day, and know thou shalt.”

      “And what may his name be, pray, Mr. Fenton?” with a peculiar emphasis on the Mr.

      “Caution,” said Fenton; “don't overdo the thing, I say, otherwise I am silent as the grave. Heigh-ho! what put that in my head? Well, sir, you shall know all you wish to know. In the first place, as to his name—it is Harry Hedles. He was clerk to a toothbrush-maker in London, but it seems he made a little too free with a portion of the brush money: he accordingly brushed off to our celebrated Irish metropolis, ycleped Dublin, where, owing to a tolerably good manner, a smooth English accent, and a tremendous stock of assurance, he insinuated himself into several respectable families as a man of some importance. Among others, it is said that he has engaged the affections of a beautiful creature, daughter and heiress to an Irish baronet, and that they are betrothed to each other. But as to the name or residence of the baronet, O Crackenfudgius, I am not in a condition to inform you—for this good reason, that I don't know either myself.”

      “But is it a fair question, Mr. Fenton, to ask how you became acquainted with all this?”

      “How?” exclaimed Fenton, with a doughty but confident swagger; “incredulous varlet, do you doubt the authenticity of my information? He disclosed to me every word of it himself, and sought me out here for the purpose of getting me to influence my friends, who, you distrustful caitiff, are persons of rank and consequence, for the purpose of bringing about a reconciliation between him and old Grinwell, the toothbrush man, and having the prosecution stopped. Avaunt! now, begone! This is all the information I can afford upon the subject of that stout but gentlemanly impostor.”

      Crackenfudge, we should have said, was on horseback during the previous dialogue, and no sooner had Fenton passed on, with a look of the most dignified self-consequence on his thin and wasted, though rather handsome features, than the candidate magistrate set spurs to his horse, and with a singularly awkward wabbling motion of his feet and legs about the animal's sides, his right hand flourishing his whip at the same time into circles in the air, he approached Red Hall, as if he brought tidings of some great national victory.

      He found the baronet perusing a letter, who, after having given him a nod, and pointing to a chair, without speaking, read on, with an expression of countenance which almost alarmed poor Crackenfudge. Whatever intelligence the letter may have contained, one thing seemed obvious—that it was gall and wormwood to his heart. His countenance, naturally more than ordinarily dark, literally blackened with rage and mortification, or perhaps with both; his eyes flashed fire, and seemed as about to project themselves out of his head, and poor Crackenfudge