“Dan Roe, you little starved-looking spalpeen, will you come up to your Elocution?—­and a purty figure you cut at it, wid a voice like a penny thrumpet, Dan!  Well, what speech have you got now, Dan, ma bouchal.  Is it, ‘Romans, counthrymin, and lovers?’”

“No, shir; yarrah, didn’t I spake that speech before?”

“No, you didn’t, you fairy.  Ah, Dan, little as you are, you take credit for more than ever you spoke, Dan, agrah; but, faith, the same thrick will come agin you some time or other, avick!  Go and get that speech betther; I see by your face, you haven’t it; off wid you, and get a patch upon your breeches, your little knees are through them, though ‘tisn’t by prayin’ you’ve wore them, any how, you little hop-o’-my-thumb you, wid a voice like a rat in a thrap; off wid you, man alive!”

Sometimes the neighboring gentry used to call into Mat’s establishment, moved probably by a curiosity excited by his character, and the general conduct of the school.  On one occasion Squire Johnston and an English gentleman paid him rather an unexpected visit.  Mat had that morning got a new scholar, the son of a dancing tailor in the neighborhood; and as it was reported that the son was nearly equal to the father in that accomplishment, Mat insisted on having a specimen of his skill.  He was the more anxious on this point as it would contribute to the amusement of a travelling schoolmaster, who had paid him rather a hostile visit, which Mat, who dreaded a literary challenge, feared might occasion him some trouble.

“Come up here, you little sartor, till we get a dacent view of you.  You’re a son of Ned Malone’s—­aren’t you?”

“Yes, and of Mary Malone, my mother, too, sir.”

“Why, thin, that’s not so bad, any how—­what’s your name?”

“Dick, sir.”

“Now, Dick, ma bouchal, isn’t it true that you can dance a horn-pipe?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Here, Larry Brady, take the door off the hinges, an’ lay it down on the flure, till Dick Malone dances the Humors of Glynn:  silence, boys, not a word; but just keep lookin’ an.”

“Who’ll sing, sir? for I can’t be afther dancin’ a step widout the music.”

“Boys, which of yez’ll sing for Dick?  I say, boys, will none of yez give Dick the Harmony?  Well, come, Dick, I’ll sing for you myself: 

     “Tooral lol, lorral lol, lorral lol, lorral, lol—­
     Toldherol, lorral lol, lorral lol, lol,” etc., etc.

“I say, Misther Kavanagh,” said the strange master, “what angle does Dick’s heel form in the second step of the treble, from the kibe on the left foot to the corner of the door forninst him?”

To this mathematical poser Mat made no reply, only sang the tune with redoubled loudness and strength, whilst little Dicky pounded the old crazy door with all his skill and alacrity.  The “boys” were delighted.

“Bravo, Dick, that’s a man,—­welt the flure—­cut the buckle—­murder the clocks—­rise upon suggaun, and sink upon gad—–­down the flure flat, foot about—­keep one foot on the ground and t’other never off it,” saluted him from all parts of the house.