“Ah!  Mike! shut up, shut up!” he said.  “Ye mean well, but ye’re the ignorantest ramus I ever seen.  Ye know how to run a shanty an’ a pig-pen, but what do ye know about keepin’ a hotel?”

“Bedad, if that’s where ye are, what do ye know about kapin’ a hotel yersilf?  Ye’ll see the time, Jim, when ye’ll be sorry ye turned the cold shoolder to the honest tongue of Mike Conlin.”

“Well, Mike, ye understand a pig-pen better nor I do.  I gi’en it up,” said Jim, with a sigh that showed how painfully Mike was boring him.

“Yes, Jim, an’ ye think a pig-pen is benathe ye, forgittin’ a pig is the purtiest thing in life.  Ah, Jim! whin ye git up in the marnin’, a falin’ shtewed, an’ niver a bit o’ breakfast in ye, an’ go out in the djew barefut, as ye was borrn, lavin’ yer coat kapin’ company wid yer ugly owld hat, waitin’ for yer pork and pertaties, an’ see yer pig wid his two paws an’ his dirty nose rachin’ oover the pin, an sayin’ ‘good-marnin’ to ye,’ an’ squalin’ away wid his big v’ice for his porridge, ye’ll remimber what I say.  An’, Jim, whin ye fade ’im, ah! whin ye fade ‘im! an’ he jist lays down continted, wid his belly full, an’ ye laugh to hear ‘im a groontin’ an’ a shwearin’ to ’imself to think he can’t ate inny more, an’ yer owld woman calls ye to breakfast, ye’ll go in jist happy—­jist happy, now.  Ah, ye can’t tell me!  I’m an owld housekaper, Jim.”

“Ye’re an old pig-keeper; that’s what you be,” said Jim.  “Ye’re a reg’lar Paddy, Mike.  Ye’re a good fellow, but I’d sooner hearn a loon nor a pig.”

“Divil a bit o’ raison have ye got in ye, Jim.  Ye can’t ate a loon no more nor ye can ate a boot.”

Mike was getting impatient with the incorrigible character of Jim’s prejudices, and Jim saw chat he was grieving him.

“Well, I persume I sh’ll have to keep pigs, Mike,” he said, in a compromising tone; “but I shan’t dress ’em in calliker, nor larn ’em to sing Old Hundred.  I sh’ll jest let ’em rampage around the woods, an’ when I want one on ’em, I’ll shoot’im.”

“Yis, bedad, an’ thin ye’ll shkin ‘im, an’ throw the rist of ’im intil the river,” responded Mike, contemptuously.

“No, Mike; I’ll send for ye to cut ‘im up an’ pack ’im.”

“Now ye talk,” said Mike; and this little overture of friendly confidence became a door through which he could enter a subject more profoundly interesting to him than that which related to his favorite quadruped.

“What kind of an owld woman have ye got, Jim?  Jist open yer heart like a box o’ tobacky, Jim, an’ lit me hilp ye.  There’s no man as knows more about a woman nor Mike Conlin.  Ah, Jim! ye ought to ’ave seed me wid the girrls in the owld counthry!  They jist rin afther me as if I’d been stalin’ their little hearrts.  There was a twilve-month whin they tore the very coat tails aff me back.  Be gorry I could ’ave married me whole neighborhood, an’ I jist had to marry the firrst one I could lay me honest hands on, an’ take mesilf away wid her to Ameriky.”