“There is not,” replied Finigan, who was now pretty well advanced, “I believe widin the compass of written or spoken language—­and I might on that subject appeal to Mr. Thaddeus O’Phats here, who is a good authority on that particular subject, or indeed on any one that involves the beauty of elocution—­I say, then, there is not widin the compass of spoken language a single word composed of two syllables so delectable to human ears, as is that word ‘dismiss,’ to the pupils of a Plantation Seminary; (* A modest periphrasis for a Hedge-School) and I assure you that those talismanic syllables shall my youthful pupils hear correctly pronounced to-morrow about ten o’clock.”

Whilst O’Finigan was thus dealing out the king’s English with such complacent volubility—­a volubility that was deeply indebted to the liquor he had taken—­the following dialogue took place in a cautious under-tone between Batt Hogan and Teddy.

“So Hycy the sportheen is to be up here to-night?”

“Shiss.”

“B—­t your shiss! can’t you spake like a Christian?”

“No, I won’t,” replied the other, angrily; “I’ll spake as I likes.”

“What brings him up, do you know?”

“Bekaise he’s goin’ to thry his misfortune upon her here,” he replied, pointing to the still. “You’ll have a good job of her, fwhedher or no.”

“Why, will he want a new one, do you think?”

“Shiss, to be sure—­would ye tink I’d begin to run (* A slang phrase for distilling) for him on dis ould skillet? an’ be de token moreover, dat wouldn’t be afther puttin’ nothin’ in your pockets—­hee! hee! hee!”

“Well, all that’s right—­don’t work for him widout a new one complate, Teddy—­Still, Head, and Worm.”

“Shiss, I tell you to be sure I won’t—­he thried her afore, though.”

“Nonsense!—­no he didn’t.”

“Ah, ha! ay dhin—­an’ she milked well too—­a good cow—­a brave cheehony she was for him.”

“An’ why did he give it up?”

“Fwhy—­fwhy, afeard he’d be diskivered, to be sure; an’ dhin shure he couldn’t hunt wid de dinnaousais—­wid de gentlemans.”

“An’ what if he’s discovered now?”

“Fwhat?—­fwhy so much the worsher for you an’ me:  he’s ginerous now an’ den, anyway; but a great rogue afther all, fwher so high a hid as he carries.”

“If I don’t mistake,” proceeded Hogan, “either himself or his family, anyhow, will be talked of before this time to-morrow.”

“Eh, Batt?” asked the other, who had changed his position and sat beside him during this dialogue—­“how is dhat now?”

“I don’t rightly know—­I can’t say,” replied Hogan, with a smile murderously grim but knowing—­“I’m not up; but the sportheen’s a made boy, I think.”

“Dher cheerna! you are up,” said Teddy, giving him a furious glance as he spoke; “there must be no saycrits, I say.”

“You’re a blasted liar, I tell you—­I am not, but I suspect—­that’s all.”