“Insolent!” muttered Mr. Stevens.

McCloskey gave Mr. Stevens an impudent look, but beyond that took no farther notice of his remark, but proceeded with the utmost coolness to pour out another glass of brandy—­after which he drew his chair closer to the grate, and placed his dirty feet upon the mantelpiece in close proximity to an alabaster clock.

“You make yourself very much at home,” said Stevens, indignantly.

“Why shouldn’t I?” answered his tormentor, in a tone of the most perfect good humour.  “Why shouldn’t I—­in the house of an ould acquaintance and particular friend—­just the place to feel at home, eh, Stevens?” then folding his arms and tilting back his chair, he asked, coolly:  “You haven’t a cigar, have ye?”

“No,” replied Stevens, surlily; “and if I had, you should not have it.  Your insolence is unbearable; you appear,” continued he, with some show of dignity, “to have forgotten who I am, and who you are.”

“Ye’re mistaken there, squire.  Divil a bit have I. I’m McCloskey, and you are Slippery George—­an animal that’s known over the ’varsal world as a Philadelphia lawyer—­a man that’s chated his hundreds, and if he lives long enough, he’ll chate as many more, savin’ his friend Mr. McCloskey, and him he’ll not be afther chating, because he won’t be able to get a chance, although he’d like to if he could—­divil a doubt of that.”

“It’s false—­I never tried to cheat you,” rejoined Stevens, courageously, for the liquor was beginning to have a very inspiriting effect.  “It’s a lie—­I paid you all I agreed upon, and more besides; but you are like a leech—­never satisfied.  You have had from me altogether nearly twenty thousand dollars, and you’ll not get much more—­now, mind I tell you.”

“The divil I won’t,” rejoined he, angrily; “that is yet to be seen.  How would you like to make yer appearance at court some fine morning, on the charge of murther, eh?” Mr. Stevens gave a perceptible shudder, and looked round, whereupon McCloskey said, with a malevolent grin, “Ye see I don’t stick at words, squire; I call things by their names.”

“So I perceive,” answered Stevens.  “You were not so bold once.”

“Ha, ha!” laughed McCloskey.  “I know that as well as you—­then I was under the thumb—­that was before we were sailing in the one boat; now ye see, squire, the boot is on the other leg.”  Mr. Stevens remained quiet for a few moments, whilst his ragged visitor continued to leisurely sip his brandy and contemplate the soles of his boots as they were reflected in the mirror above—­they were a sorry pair of boots, and looked as if there would soon be a general outbreak of his toes—­so thin and dilapidated did the soles appear.

“Look at thim boots, and me suit ginerally, and see if your conscience won’t accuse ye of ingratitude to the man who made yer fortune—­or rather lets ye keep it, now ye have it.  Isn’t it a shame now for me, the best friend you’ve got in the world, to be tramping the streets widdout a penny in his pocket, and ye livin’ in clover, with gold pieces as plenty as blackberries.  It don’t look right, squire, and mustn’t go on any longer.”