CHAPTER XII. Crackenfudge Outwitted by Fenton --The Baronet, Enraged at His Daughter's Firmness, strikes Her. 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.”