“Very aisily,” said his father, “by the girl’s waitin’ for him.  Ned is rather young! yet, I grant you; he’s nineteen, however, and two years more, you know, will make him one-and-twenty—­take him out o’ chancery, as they say.”

“Very good, Mr. Burke, very good; in that case I have no more to say.”

“Well,” pursued the father, in the same dry, half-comic, half-sarcastic voice, “but what do you intend to do with yourself?”

“As to that,” replied Hycy, who felt that the drift of the conversation was setting in against him, “I shall take due time to consider.”

“What height are you?” asked the father, rather abruptly.

“I can’t see, Mr. Burke, I really can’t see what my height has to do with the question.”

“Bekaise,” proceeded the other, “I have some notion of putting you into the army.  You spoke of it wanst yourself, remimber; but then there’s an objection even to that.”

“Pray, what is the objection, Mr. Burke?”

“Why, it’s most likely you’d have to fight—­if you took to the milintary trade.”

“Why, upon my word, Mr. Burke, you shine in the sarcastic this evening.”

“But, at any rate, you must take your chance for that.  You’re a fine, active young fellow, and I suppose if they take to runnin’ you won’t be the last of them.”

“Good, Mr. Burke—­proceed, though.”

“An accordingly I have strong notions of buying you a corplar’s or a sargent’s commission.  A good deal of that, however, depends upon yourself; but, as you say, I’ll think of it.”

Hycy, who could never bear ridicule, especially from the very man whom he attempted to ridicule most, bounced up, and after muttering something in the shape of an oath that was unintelligible, said, assuming all his polite irony:—­

“Do so, Mr. Burke; in the mean time I have the pleasure of wishing you a very good evening, sir.”

“Oh, a good-evening, sir,” replied the old fellow, “and when you come home from the wars a full non-commissioned officer, you’ll be scowerin’ up your halbert every Christmas an’ Aisther, I hope; an’ telling us long stories—­of all you killed an’ ate while you were away from us.”

Harry Clinton, now aware that the anonymous letter which his uncle had received that morning was the production of Hycy, resolved to watch the gauger’s motions very closely.  After a great deal of reflection upon Hycy’s want of memory concerning their bargain, and upon a close comparison between his conduct and whole manner on the night in question, and his own account of the matter in the course of their last interview, he could not help feeling that his friend had stated a gross falsehood, and that the pretended want of recollection was an ingenious after-thought, adopted for the purpose of screening himself from the consequences of whatever injury he might inflict upon Bryan M’Mahon.

“Harry,” said his uncle, as nine o’clock approached, “I am going upon duty tonight.”