In large manufactories, and in workshops similar to that in which the two brothers were now serving their apprenticeship, almost every one knows that the drunken and profligate entertain an unaccountable antipathy against the moral and the sober.  Art’s last fit of intoxication was not only a triumph over himself, but, what was still more, a triumph over his brother, who had so often prevented him from falling into their snares and joining in their brutal excesses.  It so happened, however, that about this precise period, Art had, unfortunately, contracted an intimacy with one of the class I speak of, an adroit fellow with an oily tongue, vast powers of flattery, and still greater powers of bearing liquor—­for Frank could observe, that notwithstanding all their potations, he never on any occasion observed him affected by drink, a circumstance which raised him in his estimation, because he considered that he was rather an obliging, civil young fellow, who complied so far as to give these men his society, but yet had sufficient firmness to resist the temptations to drink beyond the bounds of moderation.  The upshot of all this was, that Frank, not entertaining any suspicion particularly injurious to Harte, for such was his name, permitted his brother to associate with him much more frequently than he would have done, had he even guessed at his real character.

One day, about a month after the conversation which we have just detailed between the two brothers, the following conversation took place among that class of the mechanics whom we shall term the profligates:—­

“So he made a solemn promise, Harte, to Drywig”—­this was a nickname they had for Frank—­“that he’d never smell liquor again.”

“A most solemnious promise,” said Harte ironically; “a most solemn and solemnious promise; an’ only that I know he’s not a Methodist, I could a’most mistake him for Paddy M’Mahon, the locality preacher, when he tould me—­”

“Paddy M’Mahon!” exclaimed Skinadre, the first speaker, a little thin fellow, with white hair and red ferret eyes; “why, who the divil ever heard of a Methodist Praicher of the name of Paddy M’Mahon?”

“It’s aisy known,” observed a fellow named, or rather nicknamed, Jack Slanty, in consequence of a deformity in his leg, that gave him the appearance of leaning or slanting to the one side; “it’s aisy known, Skinadre, that you’re not long in this part of the country, or you’d not ax who Paddy M’Mahon is.”

“Come, Slanty, never mind Paddy M’Mahon,” said another of them; “he received the gift of grace in the shape of a purty Methodist wife and a good fortune; ay, an’ a sweet love-faist he had of it; he dropped the Padereens over Solomon’s Bridge, and tuck to the evenin’ meetins—­that’s enough for you to know; and now, Harte, about Maguire?”

“Why,” said Harte, “if I’m not allowed to edge in a word, I had betther cut.”

“A most solemn promise, you say?”