Valentine M'Clutchy, The Irish Agent. William Carleton

boys and girls might have something to whisper to one another.”

      “I didn't care we had, Val, my boy; but how on earth will we get home? Indeed such a terrible day I've seldom seen, for many years.”

      “Faith, it's good to have a dry roof over our heads, and a warm fire before us, at any rate. There's many a poor half-drowned devil in the fair, would give a trifle to change places with us; there is, upon my credit.”

      In a few minutes the refreshments came in, much to the satisfaction of the parties, who felt a strong sense of comfort, on contrasting the warmth of their snug little room with the uproar of the storm that raged without, and spent its fury upon the cold, bleak, and almost deserted streets.

      “I am glad, indeed, Mr. M'Loughlin,” continued his companion, “that I happened to meet with you to-day—you and I are now neighbors, and surely we ought to live like neighbors.”

      “Well,” replied M'Loughlin dryly, “and don't we do so? You haven't found me troublesome as a neighbor, have you? Eh, Val, my man?”

      “No,” said the other, “certainly I have—upon my credit I haven't, an' that's what I complain of; neither you nor your family associate with me or mine.”

      “Tut, Val, man,” replied M'Loughlin, still in the same dry, ironical tone as before, “surely it's not long since you came to march us. It's only two years and a half since you wormed out the O'Hagans, then the farm lay near two years idle—ay—why, man, you're not four months our neighbor yet.”

      “No—not all out; still, Mr. M'Loughlin, somehow you don't treat me or my family as neighbors. If you have to borrow anything, no matter what it is, you never come to me for it. It was only the other day that you wanted a rope to pull that breeding mare of yours out of the drain—and yet you sent past me near half a mile, up to Widow Lenehan's to borrow it.”

      “Heavens pity you, Val, for it's a hard case; but every one has their troubles, and it seems you are not without your own, poor man—eh—ha! ha! ha!—Well, never mind, my friend; you're better off now for all that, than when you were only a process-server on the estate; however, I'll tell you what, Val the Vulture—you see I can be neighborly sometimes—just let me know whenever you stand in need of a rope—mark, I don't say whenever you deserve it—and may I never taste worse liquor than this, but you shall have it with right good will, hoping still that you'll make a proper use of it—ha! ha! ha! Come, man, in the mean time take your liquor, an' don't look as if you'd eat me without salt; for I tell you if you tried it, you'd find Brian M'Loughlin a tougher morsel than you imagine.”

      “If anybody else spoke to me in the style you do, Brian, I'd not be apt to overlook it; upon my credit and reputation I would not.”

      “No, but you'd look round it may be, ha! ha! ha! but go on, Vulture, who minds what I say?”

      “Nobody, to be sure, because you make one laugh whether they will or not.”

      “Faith, Vulture dear, and that's what nobody can tax you with; or if you do, it's on the wrong side of the mouth you do it—and they say that same is but indifferent mirth, Val.”

      “I wish, Brian, you would sometimes speak seriously, and besides, you're always hard, too hard, upon me. Anything I did harshly, it was always in the discharge of my duty.”

      “Never mind, Val, the fewer of those old sores you rip up, the better for yourself—I'm not going to put you through your catechism about them. If you're wise, let byegones be byegones; take that advice from me. Whatever tricks you may have practised, you're now a wealthy man, and for the same reason the world will help you forget them, if you keep your toe in your pump.”

      “I am a wealthy man, and can set the world at defiance, if it goes to that; yes, Brian, a wealthier man than the world thinks—and as I said, I defy it.”

      “Faith, and you needn't, for the world won't put you to that trouble, at least a great part of it, if you were ten times the vulture you are, so long as you have a full purse. Eh, do you perceive me? ha! ha! ha!”

      “Well, damn the devil, heaven pardon me for swearing, for it's a thing I hate——”

      “——And yet, many a fat oath you've bolted in your time. Now on the nick of your conscience, Val darling, how many Bibles did you wear out, by a long and honest course of hard swearing?—eh—ha! ha! ha!”

      “Ha! ha! ha! Brian, I see there is little use in speaking to you, or being angry with you; you are a devilish pleasant hearty fellow, only something a little too rough about the tongue.”

      “Never mind, Val, by all accounts it would be easy to reckon them; but seriously, is it true that the lower joint of your right thumb is horny, in consequence of having caught the character of your conscience from having kissed it so often?”

      “Go on, Brian, go on; to be sure it is; they may say what they like—I am not depending upon them, and I care little. But now, Brian, there is one thing I will say, and I have long wished for an opportunity of saying it.”

      “That's my bully, out with it; don't be dashed, Val, you'll get over your modesty; upon my credit you will—ha! ha! ha!”

      “D—n it, you can't be serious for a minute; but no matter, I will out with it—here's your health and fireside, in the mean time!” Brian merely nodded in reply, but said nothing. “Now you know, Brian, your farm and mine lie very snugly beside one another; observe that that's what I begin with.”

      “Very good.”

      “Again, your family and mine live very close to one another, too.”

      “Very good.”

      “Now, what if part of the farms, and part of the families were to become united, and get spliced together, eh?”

      “Very good, very good.”

      “Well, but do you really think so, Brian?”

      “Go on, if you please, and let us hear more of it; state your case, as you say at the sessions.”

      “Well, then, there's your daughter Mary, a handsome girl, and, by all accounts, as good as she is handsome—and there's my son Phil, who, excepting the cast (* Squint)—is—but, at any rate, if he's no beauty, he's a stout young fellow, for you know yourself that that little closeness about the knees is always a sign of strength.”

      “That little closeness, Val!—why, Vulture darling, isn't one knee sugar candy, and the other licking it?—but go on, it's not bad for so far, go on; upon my credit it's not.”

      “I am glad you like it for so far—then seriously, what would you think of a marriage between them?”

      “Devil a prettier move you could make, Val. As you say, the farms and the families lie convenient to one another—and I don't see what's to prevent your proposal from being realized. You'll do well for Phil, of course—for although he has the squint in both eyes, instead of only in one, like yourself—and is twisted very much about the knees, more than you are a good deal—still, Val—neighbor Val, as I now may call you—he is a stout, left-legged, round-shouldered blade; and I question whether the red poll does not become him better than a black one like yours would.”

      “Why I grant you, Brian, that he looks better on horseback than on foot, and when mounted on 'Handsome Harry,' with top-boots and spurs, it's not on every highway you could meet his equal.”

      “Devil a lie in that, Val—nor a boy better made to ride or shoot round a corner you could not meet in Europe—but never mind; go on, Val—go on, my friend; no, faith, on hill or in hollow, it would not be easy to match him.”

      “He'd make an excellent good husband.”

      “He would not be your son if he did not—well?”

      “Well, as to that, if the truth was known, I know where the blame would lie—your daughter will not be the shrew