“Come, come, you rascal, out with it.”

“He said, sir, that he feared the divil had a hard howlt o you—­that was the day I brought him the last letter, sir—­that your heart, Captain, was full o’ desate, and damnably wicked, plase your worship, and that if you didn’t improve your morals you’d go where there is—­something about gnashing of teeth, your honor.”

“He’s a double distilled scoundrel,” replied Val, bitterly, “and although I know him well, I am determined still to know him better.”

“Double distilled!—­ay, faith, rectified many degrees above proof; but never mind; if I don’t put a spoke in his wheel, I’m not here.”

“Well, never mind now, either—­give the hypocritical little scoundrel this letter.”

“I will, and thank you, Captain!  God bless your honor, and grant you ‘long to reign over us, happy and glorious, God save the king! armin.’  You see, captain, I’ve the right strain of loyalty in me, any how, ha, ha, ha!  Throth, if I ever change in airnest, it isn’t among the yallow bellies I’ll go; but into his majesty’s own church, Captain Val—­the brave church where they have the bells, and the big blessed lookin’ bishops, and their organs and coaches; aye, faith, and where everything is dacent and jintlemanly.  Sure blood alive, Captain Val, beggin’ your pardon, what’s the use of a religion if it’s not respectable and ginteel?  What signifies a ministher of any religion, if he hasn’t a fat purse in his pocket, and a good round belly before him, for that shows, plaise your worship, that religion is more than a name, any how; an’ upon my conscience—­oh, holy Moses, Captain Val, if M’Slime was to hear me swearin’ this way!  God pardon me! how-and-ever, but upon my conscience, it isn’t the religion that keeps a man poor, but the religion that puts the flesh on his bones, and keeps it there, that is the right one—­aye, and not only that, but that keeps a good coat on his back, your honor, and a good pair of breeches to his posterals—­for which raison, whenever I do sariously turn it’ll be—­but you may guess—­it’ll be to the only true and loyal church;—­for when a man can get both fat, and loyal, and religious, all at one move, he’s a confounded fool that won’t become religious.”

This certainly, though not intended for it, was a true and bitter comment upon the principles of such men as M’Clutchy, who considered a profane and licentious attachment to a mere Establishment as a high duty, not because that establishment was the exponent of divine truth, but of a mere political symbol, adopted by subordinate and secular aids, to bind men of the same principles together.

“Begone, you rascal, and confound your dissertation.  Go and deliver the letter, as I desired you, and bring me an answer.”

“Sartinly, Captain, and will have an eye about me, into the bargain.  How is Captain Phil, sir, before I go?”

M’Clutchy made a motion of indignation, but could not, in the meantime, altogether repress a smile; and Darby, taking his hat with a kind of shrewd and confidential grin, ran out of the office.