"That's the way of it," said Jack Donovan in admiration, as Johnnie threw down his measure in one gulp, and tried to appear composed. "Why, you'd like another, I'll be bound. Here, Pat, another whisky for this handsome young gentleman."
Johnnie took his second dose more slowly.
God, it was good, though. Damn good. Put life into a fellow. And guts too. He'd be damned if he would go back to Eton next half. Uncle Bob should get him a commission right away.
"I'm joining the Dragoons in a few months," he said, watching his two companions.
"That's the life," said Jack Donovan.
"Ah, you'll look brave, Mr. Johnnie, carrying the King's colours. Why, I declare I've a mind to go with you. Have another whisky?"
"I don't mind if I do," said Johnnie, "on condition that I pay."
"Here's your health, then," said his companion, "and the best of luck to the finest young cock it's ever been my chance to meet, and that's God's truth, I'll have you know. Are you twenty-one yet?"
"Seventeen," said Johnnie.
"Now you're lying to me. By all the blessed saints in heaven, you are lying to me. Is he not, Pat?"
"I assure you I am not. I was seventeen in May of this year."
"And drink whisky the way you do. That's something to be proud of. I'd swear you were twenty-one. See that maid looking at you through the window there? She would swear you were twenty-one too, wouldn't she, Pat?"
There was much laughter and swaying about on the stools beside the bar, and Johnnie, surprised that he could still sit straight, laughed across at the girl in the shawl, who smiled back and beckoned.
"Ah, now he's made a conquest, now he's lost to us," lamented Jack Donovan, raising his eyes to heaven. "But maybe if he's only seventeen he'd do best to leave Betty Finnigan alone. She won't take them quite so young."
"What do you mean?" said Johnnie.
The fellow's laugh was suddenly becoming offensive, and he disliked his ginger hair. Perhaps, after all, his grandfather was right not to care about the Donovans. The room was getting damned hot too, and all the people making a hell of a noise.
"I bet you don't put Betty Finnigan where she should be as quick as you knocked down those two whiskies," said Jack Donovan, thrusting a grinning face far too close to his own.
"Oh really? What makes you think that?" said Johnnie.
"Because they don't let you do those things at your fine school across the water," said Jack Donovan.
"Anyone can slip a glass of whisky down his throat, but it takes a man to have a woman."
There was another great burst of laughter, and some of the other people in the public-house turned round and stared at Johnnie.
"Have your fun, boy," said an old fellow, waving his glass. "These young sparks are jealous of you, that's the plain truth of it, isn't it, Betty?"
The bright-eyed girl in the shawl nodded, and smiled again at Johnnie.
He rose slowly to his feet, and looked down at Jack Donovan.
"Thank you for your company, Jack," he said.
"One of these days we'll drink together again.
Meanwhile, I have another appointment." He slammed down some silver on the bar, and put his hat on the side of his head. "Am I going your way, or are you going mine 8? he said to Betty Finnigan…
It was five o'clock by the time Johnnie stood once more outside the bank. It was closed and barred, and the shutters drawn. His grandfather must have left fully an hour ago. Perhaps he would be waiting for him at the hostelry. Well, let the old bastard wait. It would not hurt him. Strange, thought Johnnie, how he did not feel nervous of him any more. His grandfather might look upon him with those grim, cold eyes of his, he might summon him to the bleak, cheerless study, and still he would not care. What had given him this feeling of cool confidence he could not say. Maybe it was the whisky he had taken, maybe it was the feel of the girl in his arms, maybe it was just the fact that he was seventeen, that he was Johnnie Brodrick of Clonmere, and if anyone dared to contradict him he would knock his back-teeth down his jaw, that made it impossible ever to be afraid again of an old man of seventy-five who should have been in his grave years ago.
When Johnnie came to the hostelry he found the carriage drawn up outside, and Tim standing by the horses' heads.
His grandfather was by the open door of the carriage, his watch in his hand.
"Good afternoon, sir," said Johnnie. "Have I kept you waiting?"
It was queer. He wondered if he had grown much during the last months, because he was now taller than his grandfather. Or was it possible that the old man had shrunk? Surely he leant more on that stick of his than he used to do? Copper John looked at his grandson, and replaced his watch in his waistcoat pocket.
"I was just about to leave Slane without you," he said shortly, climbing into the carriage and seating himself in the far corner. "Well," he said, after a moment, "what have you been doing with yourself?"
Johnnie took his handkerchief out of his pocket with a flourish, and blew his nose. It would be delicious, he reflected, to throw caution to the winds and tell the truth, and then watch the expression on his grandfather's face. He fought down inside himself a wild desire to laugh.
"I spent the afternoon, sir," he said, "appreciating the beauties of Slane."
His grandfather grunted.
"You were in the city shortly after two o'clock," he said. "You must have walked three times round the place, and seen all there was to see by four. Open the window your side, my boy; the air is very close in here."
He smells the whisky in my breath, thought Johnnie; now there'll be the devil to pay. I shall have to tell him I felt faint, and was obliged to go into a public-house and lie down. Once more the outrageous laughter rose in his throat. His grandfather said no more, however. He seemed thoughtful, preoccupied, and rather unlike his usual self. Perhaps his interview with the manager of the bank had not been a happy one. It was hardly possible, though, with the copper mines bringing in twenty thousand a year. But his mother was always prone to exaggeration. Possibly the tale was completely untrue, and things were going badly.
Anyway, it was not his affair, thought Johnnie, and yawning, he closed his eyes and leant back against the cushions of the carriage, one hand on the window-strap for balance. He felt delightfully sleepy, incredibly content, and if that was the result of whisky and Betty Finnigan, what the devil would he be feeling like in a few years' time, after he had seen service in the Dragoons? The world was not such a bad place, after all. In a very few minutes he was fast asleep, his face flushed, his black hair tumbled, and looking, if the truth be told, considerably less than his seventeen years.
He did not wake until the carriage rattled down into Doonhaven itself, when he came to with a start, recollecting the presence of his grandfather beside him, and was much relieved, and not a little surprised, to find that his grandfather had also slept, and therefore could not upbraid him for being an idle dog and a dull companion. It was a great temptation to tell Henry how he had spent his afternoon in Slane, but something prevented him: a faint suspicion that his younger brother, instead of shouting approval and patting him on the back, might draw away from him, puzzled, rather put off, and perhaps think less of him than he had done before. The family had dined, of course, and his grandfather had done so in Slane, so Johnnie, feeling that he could eat the house, fell upon the cold supper laid aside for him in the dining-room, and made non-committal replies to Henry's eager questions about the afternoon.
The younger boys and his sister had already retired to bed, and when Johnnie and his brother went upstairs to the drawing-room to say goodnight, he found his grandfather standing before the mantelpiece, with a curious, rather embarrassed, expression on his face. His mother was seated in the chair by the window, and his aunt Eliza opposite her, and they had both put aside their work and were listening to the head of the house. Good Lord, thought Johnnie, he has found out about me this afternoon and is telling them…