“Ye didn’t see the Irish Times yet, I think?” he began, standing over his master, and looking down upon him with an expression as triumphant and malign as that of a carrion-crow with a piece of stolen meat.  He rarely bestowed the usual honorifics upon Dick, considering that his five years’ seniority relieved him of such obligations.  “I wouldn’t believe all I’d read in the papers, but this is true, anyway!”

“What’s true?” said Major Dick, irritably; “you’ve forgotten the salt again, Evans!  How the devil can I eat an egg without salt?  Send one of the maids for it—­don’t go yourself,” he added, as Evans left the room.  “The old fool’d be all day getting it,” he said to himself, with an old man’s contempt for old age in another.  “Now, then,” as Evans returned, “what’s your wonderful bit of news?”

“Ye can read it there for yourself,” replied Evans, coldly; he was ruffled by the episode of the salt.

“Damn it, man, I can’t read the paper and eat an egg!” snapped the Major.  “Out with your lie, whatever it is!”

“Master Larry’s chosen for the Member in place of Prendergast,” said Evans, sulkily.

If Evans had been unfortunate in the way in which his sensation had been led up to, its reception left him nothing to desire.  Dick was stricken to an instant of complete silence.  Then he roared to Evans to take the damned tray out of his way, and to give him the (otherwise qualified) paper.

It would serve no purpose, useful or otherwise, to attempt to record Dick Talbot-Lowry’s denunciations of Larry, of his religion, and of his politics; of, secondarily, his ingratitude; his treachery, and his lack of the most rudimentary elements of a gentleman.  They lasted long, and lacked nothing of effect that strength of lung and vigour of language could bring to them.  And Evans, the many-wintered crow, hearkened, and rejoiced that he was seeing his desire of his enemy.

“No!  I won’t eat it!  Take it away—­I don’t want it, I tell you!  Curse you, can’t you do as you’re bid?” Thus spake Dick Talbot-Lowry, flinging himself back on his pillows, and shoving the breakfast-tray from him.  The hot purple colour that had flooded his face was fading; his voice was getting hoarse and weak.  Evans, with an apprehensive eye on his master’s changed aspect, carried the tray out of the room.

There was a quick step on the stairs, and Larry came lightly along the landing.

“The Major up, Evans?  No?  Oh, all right!  May I come in, Cousin Dick?”

He swung into the room.

Old Evans carefully shut the door behind him.

“Now me laddy-o!” he whispered, rubbing his hooked grey beak with one finger, and chuckling low and wheezily:  “Now, maybe!  Me fine young Papist!  Ye’ll be getting your tay in a mug!  Hot and strong!  Hot and strong!”

He moved away from the door with the tray of untouched breakfast things.

CHAPTER XXXII