‘Give him a glass of punch,’ Blake called out to Biddy. ‘I’ll be with him in the squazing of a lemon. So,’ he continued, reeling out of his bedroom a minute later, ‘ye’ve brought the cub with ye, though I forbade ye.’ Richard, sullenly flicking at his boot with his riding-whip, looked at Blake from under his lowering eyebrows, but took no further heed of his ambiguous welcome. Blake unsteadily poured out a second bumper of spirit, and the glass rattled against his teeth as he drained it. ‘And what’s the news with his lordship this day?’ he asked. ‘Still very ill,’ answered Conseltine. ‘He’s been upset by that old fool Peebles, who’s been hammering at him all day long to recall that brat of a by-love of his.’ ‘Faith!’ returned Blake, ‘and he might do worse, by a great deal. ’Tis a fine lad, Desmond, as clever and handsome as that cub of yours is stupid and ugly. Don’t stand there, ye imp of perdition, glowering at me like a ghost. Sit down and drink like a Christian.’ Richard obeyed a scarcely perceptible motion of his father’s eyebrows, sat at the battered table, and poured out for himself a glass of whisky, to which he put his lips with an awkward affectation of goodfellowship. ‘Have ye got that two hundred pounds?’ asked Blake. ‘I have,’ said Conseltine; ‘I’ve brought it with me.’ He unbuttoned his coat, and took a bundle of bank papers from the inner breast-pocket. Blake took it with shaking hands, and rammed it in a crumpled mass into his breeches pocket without counting. ‘You’re as good as your word, Dick Conseltine, for once in your life,’ said he. ‘Have another drink.’ Conseltine profited by Blake raising his glass to his lips to fling the contents of the tumbler which Biddy had filled for him on to the earthen floor of the hut, and filled it again, principally with water. ‘Why,’ said Blake, ‘ye’re gettin’ friendly and neighbourly in your old age. Ye’ll be a dacent man before ye die, if ye live long enough.’ ‘Blake,’ said Conseltine, ‘I want to talk to you. Did ye ever think of emigration?’ ‘Did I ever think o’ _what_?’ asked Blake, pausing with his tumbler half-way to his lips. ‘Emigration,’ repeated Conseltine. ‘I never did,’ returned Blake. ‘Why would I?’ ‘Well,’ said his companion, ‘there are many reasons why ye might think of it. Ye’re just spoiling here--wasting yourself. If ye’d go out West, a man of your abilities, with a little capital, would do well. Land and hiring are cheap; it’s a lovely climate, and there are no end of chances of making money. I’ll tell ye what, now. ’Tis a sin and a shame to see a man like you wasting yourself in this cursed country. I’ll make that two hundred five, and pay your passage out, if ye’ll take the next steamer to New York.’ ‘By the saints!’ cried Blake, ‘ye’re mighty generous all of a sudden. Ye want to get rid of me? Spake the truth, now, isn’t that it?’