“Take that as an illustration—­is that one?”

“Faith, masther, that’s two, any how:  but, sir, is not wanst nought nothin’; now masher, sure there can’t be less than nothin’.”

“Very good, sir.”

“If wanst nought be nothin’, then twice nought must be somethin’, for it’s double what wanst nought is—­see how I’m sthruck for nothin’, an’ me knows it—­hoo! hoo! hoo!

“Get out, you Esculapian; but I’ll give you somethin’, by-and-by, just to make you remimber that you know nothin’—­off wid you to your sate, you spalpeen you—­to tell me that there can’t be less than nothin’ when it’s well known that sporting Squaire O’Canter’s worth a thousand pounds less than nothin’.”

“Paddy Doran, come up to your ‘Intherest.’  Well Paddy, what’s the intherest of a hundred pound, at five per cent?  Boys, have manners you thieves you.”

“Do you mane, masther, per cent, per annum?”

“To be sure I do—­how do you state it?”

“I’ll say, as a hundher pound is to one year, so is five per cent, per annum.”

“Hum—­why what’s the number of the sum Paddy?”

“’Tis No. 84, sir. (The master steals a glance at the Key to Gough.)

“I only want to look at it in the Gough, you see, Paddy,—­an’ how dare you give me such an answer, you big-headed dunce, you—­go off an’ study it, you rascally Lilliputian—­off wid you, and don’t let me see your ugly mug till you know it.”

“Now, gintlemen, for the Classics; and first for the Latinaarians—­Larry Cassidy, come up wid your Aisop.  Larry you’re a year at Latin, an’ I don’t think you know Latin for frize, what your own coat is made of, Larry.  But, in the first place, Larry, do you know what a man that taiches Classics is called?”

“A schoolmasther, sir.” (Whack, whack, whack.).

“Take that for your ignorance—­and that to the back of it—­ha; that’ll taiche you—­to call a man that taiches Classics a schoolmaster, indeed!  ’Tis a Profissor of Humanity itself, he is—­(whack, whack, whack,)—­ha! you ringleader, you; you’re as bad as Dick M’Growler, that no masther in the county could get any good of, in regard that he put the whole school together by the ears, wherever he’d be, though the spalpeen wouldn’t stand fight himself.  Hard fortune to you! to go to put such an affront upon me, an’ me a Profissor of Humanity.  What’s Latin for pantaloons?”

“Fern—­fern—­femi—­”

“No, it’s not, sir.”

“Femora—­”

“Can you do it?”

“Don’t strike me, sir, don’t strike me, sir, an’ I will.”

“I say, can you do it?”

“Femorali,”—­(whack, whack, whack,)—­

“Ah, sir! ah, sir! ’tis fermorali—­ah, sir! ’tis fermorali—­ah, sir!”—­

“This thratement to a Profissor of Humanity—­(drives him head over heels to his seat).—­Now, sir, maybe you’ll have Latin for throwsers agin, or by my sowl, if you don’t, you must peel, and I’ll tache you what a Profissor of Humanity is!