"Bryan," said M'Mahon to his son, as the auction was proceeding, "I'll
slip up to the agent's, and do you see if them sheep goes for a fair
value--if they do, give a bid or two any how. I'm speakin' of that lot
we wor lookin' at, next the wall there."
"I'll pay attention to it," said Bryan; "I know you'll find the agent at
home now, for I seen him goin' in a while ago; so hurry up, an' ax him
if he can say how soon we may expect the leases."
"Never fear, I will."
On entering Fethertonge's Hall, M'Mahon was treated with very marked
respect by the servant, who told him to walk into the parlor, and he
would let his master know.
"He entertains a high opinion of you, Mister M'Mahon," said he; "and I
heard him speak strongly about you the other day to some gentlemen that
dined with us--friends of the landlord's. Walk into the parlor."
In a few minutes M'Mahon was shown into Fethertonge's office, the walls
of which were, to a considerable height, lined with tin boxes, labelled
with the names of those whose title-deeds and other valuable papers they
contained.
Fethertonge was a tall, pale, placid looking man, with rather a
benevolent cast of countenance, and eyes that were mild, but very
small in proportion to the other features of his face. His voice was
exceedingly low, and still more musical and sweet than low; in fact
it was such a voice as, one would imagine, ought to have seldom been
otherwise employed than in breathing hope and, consolation to despairing
sinners on their bed of death.
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