“Divil a bit will ye see agin,” said Jim, shaking his head.  “Mike, ye’re a fool.”

“That’s jist what I tell mesilf,” responded Mike; “but there’s betther music nor hearin’ it repaited; an’ I’ve got betther company in it, barrin’ Mr. Benedict’s presence, nor I’ve got here in me own house.”

Jim, finding Mike a little sore over his loss, refrained from further allusion to it; and Mr. Benedict declared himself ready for bed.  Jim had impatiently waited for this announcement, for he was anxious to have a long talk with Mike about the new house, the plans for which he had brought with him.

“Clear off yer table,” said Jim, “an’ peel yer eyes, Mike, for I’m goin’ to show ye somethin’ that’ll s’prise ye.”

When his order was obeyed, he unrolled the precious plans.

“Now, ye must remember, Mike, that this isn’t the house; these is plans, as Mr. Benedict has drawed.  That’s the kitchen, and that’s the settin’-room, and that’s the cubberd, and that’s the bedroom for us, ye know, and on that other paper is the chambers.”

Mike looked at it all earnestly, and with a degree of awe, and then shook his head.

“Jim,” said he, “I don’t want to bodder ye, but ye’ve jist been fooled.  Don’t ye see that divil a place ’ave ye got for the pig?”

“Pig!” exclaimed Jim, with contempt.  “D’ye s’pose I build a house for a pig?  I ain’t no pig, an’ she ain’t no pig.”

“The proof of the puddin’ is in the atin’, Jim; an’ ye don’t know the furrst thing about house-kapin’.  Ye can no more kape house widout a pig, nor ye can row yer boat widout a paddle.  I’m an owld house-kaper, Jim, an’ I know; an’ a man that don’t tend to his pig furrst, is no betther nor a b’y.  Ye might put ’im in Number Tin, but he’d go through it quicker nor water through a baskit.  Don’t talk to me about house-kapin’ widout a pig.  Ye might give ‘im that little shtoop to lie on, an’ let ’im run under the house to slape.  That wouldn’t be bad now, Jim?”

The last suggestion was given in a tender, judicial tone, for Mike saw that Jim was disappointed, if not disgusted.  Jim was looking at his beautiful stoop, and thinking of the pleasant dreams he had associated with it.  The idea of Mike’s connecting the life of a pig with that stoop was more than he could bear.

“Why, Mike,” said he, in an injured tone, “that stoop’s the place where she’s agoin’ to set.”

“Oh!  I didn’t know, Jim, ye was agoin’ to kape hins.  Now, ef you’re agoin’ to kape hins, ye kin do as ye plase, Jim, in coorse; but ye musn’t forgit the pig, Jim.  Be gorry, he ates everything that nobody ilse kin ate, and then ye kin ate him.”

Mike had had his expression of opinion, and shown to his own satisfaction that his judgments were worth something.  Having done this, he became amiable, sympathetic, and even admiring.  Jim was obliged to tell him the same things a great many times, and to end at last without the satisfaction of knowing that the Irishman comprehended the precious plans.  He would have been glad to make a confidant of Mike, but the Irishman’s obtuseness and inability to comprehend his tenderer sentiments, repulsed him, and drove him back upon himself.