# Spanish Gold/Chapter 18
### CHAPTER XVIII

ON board the Granuaile Mr. Willoughby showed himself a courteous host. He took Father Mulcrone to a cabin and offered to provide him with anything he wanted. But the priest, having foreseen that he would sleep elsewhere than in his own bed, had with him a small bag which contained all that he required. Higginbotham and Meldon were put into another cabin. The party assembled in the saloon and dinner was served.
"You do yourself pretty well on this boat," said Meldon as he tasted the soup. "The Major and I have been living principally on sardines and tinned brawn. Higginbotham gets a lobster now and then. I suppose you have more lobsters than you care about in the course of the summer, Father Mulcrone?"
"I get plenty," said the priest. "Lobsters, potatoes, and tea. They're the easiest things to get on Inishmore."
After this the conversation languished. Mr. Willoughby was disappointed. He expected an amusing dinner. He found himself obliged to talk on dull subjects to Higginbotham, who was too much overawed by the company of a Chief Secretary to do more than make respectful replies. Meldon said a word in praise of each dish he tasted, and Father Mulcrone supplemented what he said in the manner of a man who seconds a vote of thanks. Otherwise, neither of the two clergymen talked. They were both hungry. They were both accustomed to take their meals alone. They both regarded the eating of a good dinner as a serious business, demanding undivided attention. Mr. Willoughby, tired of Higginbotham, undertook a monologue, and kept it going quietly until dinner was over and cigars were lit.
Then Father Mulcrone told a story. Meldon capped it with another. Father Mulcrone replied with a better one. Meldon outwent it. The stories became more and more extravagant. Mr. Willoughby looked from one clergyman to the other and laughed heartily. Higginbotham giggled convulsively in a corner. Neither of the clergymen even smiled. With perfectly grave faces, in tones which would have suited a scientific lecture, they narrated absurdity after absurdity. It was Meldon who reached the climax, who told a story so monstrously improbable that Father Mulcrone gave up the attempt to better it.
"For a young man," said the priest, "and I wouldn't say you were more than seven-and-twenty——"
"I'll be that in three weeks, if I live so long," said Meldon.
"You've a deal of experience of this country and the ways of the people."
"For the matter of that you've seen a thing or two yourself."
"I have; but when I was your age I didn't know the half of what you do."
It was a handsome tribute. Meldon appreciated it. He raised his glass of whisky and water, nodded to Father Mulcrone and said—
"May the devil fly away with the roof of the house where you and I aren't welcome."
"I consider myself fortunate," said Mr. Willoughby, "in having as my guests to-night two men with the knowledge of Ireland which you possess. I'm learning more from your conversation than from all the Blue Books I ever read."
"I think we may understand from that remark," said Father Mulcrone, "that there's no danger of the slates being taken off the Lodge in the Phœnix while you're in it."
"You'll be welcome there, either of you," said Mr. Willoughby, "while I hold office. You'll be all the more welcome if you come together."
"We'll do it," said Meldon.
"What are the authorities of your Churches thinking of," said Mr. Willoughby, "when they leave you a curate, Mr. Meldon, and you no more than a parish priest, Father Mulcrone?"
"I'd be well off if I was that itself. It's a C.C. I am, and so far as I know it's a C.C. I'm likely to remain."
"You ought," said Mr. Willoughby, "to be bishops at least, both of you. If I had the arranging of these things you'd be archbishops. Why aren't you?"
"I haven't reached the canonical age," said Meldon. "You can't be a bishop till you're thirty. I've three years more to wait."
"I went very near being a bishop once," said Father Mulcrone, "and it's my sincere hope I'll never be as near it again. It wasn't in this diocese but another, and I won't tell you where for fear of an action for libel. The old man that was the bishop died. The night after they buried him I happened to be going along the road in the dark. It might have been ten o'clock or half-past. Who did I see coming along towards me but the dead man, dressed up in his robes, and his episcopal ring on his thumb. When he caught sight of me he took off the ring and held it out to me as much as to say, 'It's yourself, Father Mulcrone, that's to succeed me.' I was pleased, I can tell you. I stuck out my thumb for him to put the ring on, seeing that was what he seemed to be wanting to do. Would you believe it, gentlemen? The ring was red hot!"
"And is that," said Meldon, "the place bishops go to when they're dead?"
"It's the only place ever I heard of," said Father Mulcrone, "where a ring could get into such a state as that."
"On the whole, then, I think I'll stick to my curacy. It's safer."
"You're right. It's what I've done myself."
There was a silence for a minute or two, broken Only by half-suppressed sniggers from Higginbotham. Then Meldon rose with a sigh.
"You have me beat, Father Mulcrone. I give in to you. The equal of the experience you've just narrated never came my way. I think I'll be saying good-night, Mr. Willoughby. If you'll send a boat to the pier with me and Higginbotham, I'll get my punt there and go off to the Spindrift."
The Granuaile's boat landed Meldon and Higginbotham at about eleven o'clock. A change in the weather was certainly coming. Great masses of clouds were piled up over the western half of the sky. Broken fragments, the advance guard of their army, rushed eastwards. The little wind there had been earlier in the afternoon was gone. The air was ominously still. From the far side of the island came the roar of waves. The sea was dashing sullenly against the rocks and dragging at the stones on the beaches. Not yet lashed by the storm, it already felt a premonition of the storm's coming. Even the water in the sheltered bay was affected with a vague uneasiness. Dark lumps rose here and there on its surface and sank again. Silent surges crept unexpectedly up the smooth sides of the pier, mouthing at the stones, slipping down again unsatisfied, eddying in hungry circles.
Meldon looked round him uncomfortably.
"I'll take the punt on board to-night," he said, "and I'll pay out a few extra fathom of anchor chain. There'll be a blow before morning. If I were you, Higginbotham, I'd stuff an old towel or something into that broken window. It's going to rain and rain heavy. Good-night."
"Good-night. What a pleasant man Mr. Willoughby is! I am so glad there was no trouble between you and him. Good-night."
Meldon struck a match and lit his pipe. Then he stooped down to loose the painter of the punt. As he did so he heard footsteps on the granite surface of the pier, the footsteps of some one who approached him. He supposed that Higginbotham had returned again to say some forgotten word. With the rope he had cast loose in his hand he stood and waited. It was not Higginbotham who approached. Whoever it was stopped about ten yards away from him. Meldon could dimly discern the figure of a man much taller than Higginbotham. A voice, raised very little above a whisper, reached him—
"Master."
Meldon stooped and refastened the painter. He heard the voice again but did not recognise it.
"Master."
He approached the tall figure, peering eagerly through the darkness.
"I'm blessed," he said, "if it isn't old Thomas O'Flaherty Pat! So you've got one word of English, have you? Maybe now if you searched in the corner of your mind you might find a little more."
"I have plenty," said the old man. "There's few have more English nor better English than myself."
"I always thought you had," said Meldon. "I'd have laid long odds on it if I'd been a betting man, which, of course, I'm not. Now what is it you want?"
"It's yourself, Master."
"Is it, then? And what would you do with me supposing you had me? Tell me that. Is it wanting me to speak a word for you to the Chief Secretary you are, to get back your house and land?"
"It is not."
"If it is, I'll do it, of course; but I tell you straight that it won't be the smallest bit of use. The whole might of the British Empire is against you. They'll get your land out of you if they have to send a man-of-war round to do it. Besides, you know, you gave yourself away badly in that interview with Father Mulcrone to-day. I don't blame you. I knew very well you were done for when they fetched the priest to you. It was a mean trick, that. No real sportsman would have done it. It was a sort of sitting shot. You didn't have the ghost of a chance. Now if you'd been treated fairly and left to worry it out with nobody but Mary Kate to come between you and the Board, you might have kept them arguing till either they or you were dead."
"It isn't wanting you to speak for me I am. Neither to himself, nor his reverence, nor to any other man."
"Is it a writing, then?"
"It is not."
"Well, I'm glad to hear that any way, for I haven't brought my fountain pen with me on this cruise, and I'm thinking it's poorly I'd write with any pen and ink that you are likely to have. But if it isn't to speak nor yet to write I don't quite see what it is you do want."
"It's yourself."
"That's all very fine. I owe you a good turn for giving me that crab, and I admire the plucky way in which you've stood up to Higginbotham and the Board, but I'm not going to hand myself over body and soul to a man I've only known for three days without finding out what he wants me for. Has anything gone wrong with Mary Kate or Michael Pat?"
"I'd be thankful to you if you'd step up to my little houseen, the place that they're going to take from me."
"What for?" said Meldon. "I declare to goodness it's very near as hard to make out what you want now you're talking English as it was before."
"There's that there that I'd be glad to show you. Maybe you'd tell me what would be the best to be done. It's what I never expected to show to any man, let alone a stranger like yourself. But my mind's made up, and I'll show it to you."
Meldon gripped the old man by the arm.
"Is it the treasure you have hid there?"
"Treasure?"
"Treasure; yes. Gold. Do you understand? Is it gold you have up in your house?"
"It might, then."
"Is there much of it? How much is there?"
"There's a power. Glory be to God, there's a mighty deal of it! More, maybe, than ever you saw in one place together in all your life."
"Come on, then," said Meldon. "Let me set eyes] on it. I dare say you guessed—I always said you weren't such a fool as you tried to make out to Higginbotham—I dare say you guessed that the Major and I were after that treasure ourselves."
"I did."
"I thought you did. And the gentlemen from the other yacht were after it, too. You guessed that, I suppose?"
"Didn't I see them going down the Poll-na-phuca? What else would the likes of them be after in such a place?"
"Well, I'll say this. If I wasn't to get it myself, I'd sooner you had it than another. I hope you'll make a good use of it and not be wasting it on drink and foolishness. Give Mary Kate a good fortune when the time comes and marry her to a decent man."
"Sure, what's the use of talking?" said the old man in a tone of despair. "It'll be took from me along with the house. The Board will take it and never a penny will the little lady be the better of it, no more than myself or any other one."
"Maybe they won't get taking it," said Meldon, "though indeed for all the good you're getting out of it at present they might as well. I don't see that it's any use to you if you don't so much as buy yourself a decent suit of clothes and spend sixpence on getting your hair cut. It's a shame for a rich man like you to be going about the way you are."
"What good would grand clothes be to the likes of me?"
"I'm beginning to understand things a bit," said Meldon, whose thoughts had passed away from the use to be made of the money. "I see the reason now why you wouldn't give up the house and land to Higginbotham. You're certainly no fool. That dodge of yours, pretending you couldn't speak a word of any language except Irish, was uncommonly nippy. I doubt if I could have hit on anything better myself, and I've had some experience in disguises. Only for the priest you might have kept them all at bay. I don't see what they could have done to you, even if they took to asking questions in Parliament."
"What was the good? They have it taken off me now at the latter end."
"They have the house and land," said Meldon. "There's no doubt of that. But I wouldn't say they have the treasure yet. You came to the right man when you came to me. If that treasure can be saved, I'll save it. What would you say now if we carried it down to-night to Mrs. O'Flaherty's, Michael Pat's mother, and hid it under the old woman's bed?"
"I wouldn't trust her. She'd steal it on me."
"I don't believe she would. Not if you gave her a bit for herself and bought a silver mug or something for Michael Pat. But if you don't like the notion of her, what about Mary Kate's mother? She's your own daughter."
"She'd steal it on me as quick as another."
"Would she, then? I declare to goodness you have a pretty low opinion of your relatives and friends. I don't believe they'd touch a penny of it. Have you any plan in your own head?"
"Let you be coming up and taking a look at it."
"I will, of course; I'm most anxious to see it. But tell me what it is you think of doing with it?"
"I thought maybe——" the old man paused and laid his hand on Meldon's arm.
"Well?"
"I thought maybe you and the other gentleman would take it with you in the yacht and put it in the savings bank beyond in the big town."
"That beats all," said Meldon. "And what would hinder us from making off with it and never coming next or nigh you again?"
"You wouldn't do the like."
"Well, as a matter of fact I wouldn't. No more would the Major. But how do you know that? It's a queer thing that a man who wouldn't trust his own daughter, and her living under his very eye, would hand over a lot of money like that to two strangers."
"Sure, I could see by the face of you the minute you first set foot on the pier that you were as simple and innocent and harmless as could be. Anybody could tell by the talk of you that you couldn't get the better of a child, let alone a grown man like myself, begging your honour's pardon for thinking that ever you'd want to do the like."
"You're quite wrong about that," said Meldon, irritated by this compliment to his integrity, "and if you dare to say such a thing again I'll not help you with your treasure. Mind what I say. Another word of that sort out of your head and I'll go straight down to Higginbotham and tell him what you've got."
"Let you be coming along now," said Thomas O'Flaherty in an indulgent tone, "and don't be wasting the night talking. Walk easy. It's a rough way from this on to my houseen, and there's stones on it would break the leg of a bullock, let alone yours or mine."