Edward was drinking rum, in a kind of hot punch of his own mixing. Phil, though fond of madeira at home, now contented himself with ale; and the two were soon at work upon a fried chicken prepared in the Maryland fashion. "You know, Phil," says Ned at last, having talked in a lively strain upon a multitude of matters, none of which Philip perceived to be important, "'fore gad, I always liked you! Tis so, as the Lord's my judge. Nay, you think I took a damned odd way of showing it. But we're not all alike. Now look you! Hearken unto me, as the parson says. I can say a good word for you in a certain ear." "Whose?" queried Phil, wondering in what ear he needed a good word said. "Whose, eh? Now whose would it be? Come, come, I'll speak to the point. I'm no man for palaver. 'Tis an ear you've whispered more than one sweet thing into, I'll warrant. You're young, Philip, young: you think you can fall in love and nobody find it out. Why, I hadn't been landed two hours, and asked the news, when I was told that you and Bert Russell were over ears in love with my sister." Phil merely looked his astonishment. "Now, sir, you mayn't think it," says Mr. Ned, "but my word has some weight with Fanny." "Fanny?" echoed Philip. "What has she to do with it?" "Why, everything, I fancy. The lady usually has--" "But Fanny isn't the lady." "What? Then who the devil is?" "I don't think 'tis a matter need be talked of now," said Phil. "But I'd like to know--'gad, it can't be the other sister! Madge--that spitfire! Well, well! Your face speaks, if your tongue won't. Who'd have thought any man would go soft over such a vixen? Well, I can't help you there, my lad!" "I haven't asked your help," says Phil with a smile. "Now, it's a pity," says Ned, dolefully, "for I thought by doing you a good turn I might get you to do me another." "Oh, I see! Why, then, as for my doing you a good turn if it's possible, speak out. What is it?" "Now, I call that noble of you, Phil; damned noble! I do need a good turn, and that's a fact. You see I didn't tell my father exactly the truth as to my leaving the Barbadoes. Not that I don't scorn a lie, but I was considerate of the old gentleman's feelings. I couldn't endure to shock him in his tenderest place. You understand?" "I probably shall when you've finished." "Why, I dare say you know what the old man's tenderest place is. Well, if you won't answer, 'tis his pride in the family name, the spotless name of Faringfield! Oh, I've worked upon that more than once, I tell you. The old gentleman will do much to keep the name without a blemish; I could always bring him to terms by threatening to disgrace it--" "What a rascal you've been, then!"