The Return of the O'Mahony. Frederic Harold
to me,” he said, more to himself than to the beggars. “I hain’t laughed before since Linsky spilt the molasses over his head.”
CHAPTER V.—THE INSTALLATION OF JERRY.
The visit to White & Carmody’s law-office had weighed heavily upon the mind of The O’Mahony during the whole voyage across the Atlantic, and it still was the burden of his thoughts as he sat beside Jerry Higgins—this he learned to be the car-driver’s name—in the train which rushed up the side of the Lea toward Cork. The first-class compartment to which Jerry had led the way was crowded with people who had arrived by the Moldavian, and who scowled at their late fellow-passenger for having imposed upon them the unsavory presence of the carman. The O’Mahony was too deeply occupied with his own business to observe this. Jerry smiled blandly into the hostile faces, and hummed a “come-all-ye” to himself.
When, an hour or so after their arrival, The O’Mahony emerged from the lawyers’ office the waiting Jerry scarcely knew him for the same man. The black felt hat, which had been pulled down over his brows, rested with easy confidence now well back on his head; his gray eyes twinkled with a pleasant light; the long face had lost its drawn lines and saturnine expression, and reflected content instead.
“Come along somewhere where we can get a drink,” he said to Jerry; but stopped before they had taken a dozen steps, attracted by the sign and street-show of a second-hand clothing shop. “Or no,” he said, “come in here first, and I’ll kind o’ spruce you up a bit so’t you can pass muster in society.”
When they came upon the street again, it was Jerry who was even more strikingly metamorphosed. The captious eye of one whose soul is in clothes might have discerned that the garments he now wore had not been originally designed for Jerry. The sleeves of the coat were a trifle long; the legs of the trousers just a suspicion short. But the smile with which he surveyed the passing reflections of his improved image in the shop-windows was all his own. He strode along jauntily, carrying the heavy bags as if they had been mere featherweight parcels.
The two made their way to a small tavern near the quays, which Jerry knew of, and where The O’Mahony ordered a room, with a fire in it, and a comfortable meal to be laid therein at once.
“Sure, it’s not becomin’ that I should ate along wid your honor,” Jerry remonstrated, when they had been left alone in the dingy little chamber, overlooking the street and the docks beyond.
At this protest The O’Mahony lifted his brows in unaffected surprise.
“What’s the matter with you?” he asked, half-derisively; and no more was said on the subject.
No more was said on any subject, for that matter, until fish had succeeded soup, and the waiter was making ready for a third course. Then the founder of the feast said to this menial:
“See here, you, don’t play this on me! Jest tote in whatever more you’ve got, an’ put er down, an’ git out. We don’t want you bobbin’ in here every second minute, all the afternoon.”
The waiter, with an aggrieved air, brought in presently a tray loaded with dishes, which he plumped down all over The O’Mahony’s half of the table.
“That’s somethin’ like it,” said that gentleman, approvingly; “you’ll get the hang of your business in time, young man,” as the servant left the room. Then he heaped up Jerry’s plate and his own, ruminated over a mouthful or two, with his eyes searching the other’s face—and began to speak.
“Do you know what made me take a shine to you?” he asked, and then made answer: “ ’Twas on account of your dodrotted infernal cheek. It made me laugh—an’ I’d got so it seemed as if I wasn’t never goin’ to laugh any more. That’s why I cottoned to you—an’ got a notion you was jest the kind o’ fellow I wanted. D’ye know who I am?”
Jerry’s quizzical eyes studied his companion’s face in turn, first doubtingly, then with an air of reassurance.
“I do not, your honor,” he said at last, visibly restraining the impulse to say a great deal more.
“I’m the O’Mahony of Murrisk, an’ I’m returnin’ to my estates.”
Jerry did prolonged but successful battle once more with his sense of humor and loquacious instincts.
“All right, your honor,” he said, with humility.
“Maybe I don’t look like an Irishman or talk like one,” the other went on, “but that’s because I was taken to America when I was a little shaver, knee-high to a grasshopper, an’ my folks didn’t keep up no connection with Irishmen. That’s how I lost my grip on the hull Ireland business, don’t you see?”
“Sure, your honor, it’s as clear as Spike Island in the sunshine.”
“Well, that’s how it was. And now my relations over here have died off—that is, all that stood in front of me—and so the estates come to me, and I’m The O’Mahony.”
“An’ it’s proud ivery mother’s son of your tin-ints ‘ll be at that same, your honor.”
“At first, of course, I didn’t know but the lawyers ’ud make a kick when I turned up and claimed the thing. Generally you have to go to law, an’ take your oath, an’ fight everybody. But, pshaw! why they jest swallered me slick’n clean, as if I’d had my ears pinned back an’ be’n greased all over. Never asked ‘ah,’ ‘yes,’ or ‘no.’ Didn’t raise a single question. I guess there ain’t no White in the business now. I didn’t see him or hear anything about him. But Carmody’s a reg’lar old brick. They wasn’t nothin’ too good for me after he learnt who I was. But what fetched him most was that I’d seen Abe Lincoln, close to, dozens o’ times. He was crazy to know all about him, an’ the assassination, an’ what I thought ’ud be the next move; so’t we hardly talked about The O’Mahony business at all. An’ it seems ther’s been a lot o’ shenanigan about it, too. The fellow that came out to America to—to find me—Linsky his name was—why, darn my buttons, if he hadn’t run away from Cork, an’ stole my papers along with a lot of others, countin’ on peddlin’ ’em over there an’ collarin’ the money.”
“Ah, the thief of the earth!” said Jerry.
“Well, he got killed there, in about the last battle there was in the war; an’ ’twas by the finding of the papers on him that—that I came by my rights.”
“Glory be to God!” commented Jerry, as he buried his jowl afresh in the tankard of stout.
A term of silence ensued, during which what remained of the food was disposed of. Then The O’Mahony spoke again:
“Are you a man of family?”
“Well, your honor, I’ve never rightly, come by the truth of it, but there are thim that says I’m descinded from the O’Higginses of Westmeath. I’d not venture to take me Bible oath on it, but—”
“No, I don’t mean that. Have you got a wife an’ children?”
“Is it me, your honor? Arrah, what girl that wasn’t blind an’ crippled an’ deminted wid fits wud take up wid the likes of me?”
“Well, what is your job down at Queenstown like? Can you leave it right off, not to go back any more?”
“It’s no job at all. Sure, I jist take out Mikey Doolan’s car, wid that thund’rin’ old Maggie, givin’ warnin’ to fall to pieces on the road in front of me, for friendship—to exercise ’em like. It’s not till every other horse and ass in Queenstown’s ingaged that anny mortial sow ’ll ride on my car. An’ whin I gets a fare, why, I do be after that long waitin’