“Not a matter for that, you must have something, I say—­a drop of dram then—­pure poteen—­or maybe you’d prefer a glass of wine? say which; for you must taste either the one or the other”—­and as he spoke, with a good-humored laugh, he deliberately locked the door, and put the key in his pocket—­“It’s an old proverb,” he added, “that those who won’t take are never ready to give, and I’ll think you after all but a poor-hearted creature if you refuse it.  At any rate, consider yourself a prisoner until you comply.”

“Well, then,” replied our strange friend, still smiling, “since your hospitality will force me, at the expense of my liberty, I think I must—­a glass of sherry then, since you are so kind.”

“Ah,” replied his reverence, “I see you don’t know what’s good—­that’s the stuff,” he added, pointing to the poteen, “that would send the radical heat to the very ends of your nails—­I never take more than a single tumbler after my dinner, but that’s my choice.”

The stranger then joined him in a glass of sherry, and they proceeded to Mr. Birney’s.

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.”