“A most solemn and solemnious promise, that was what I said; never again by night or day, wet or dry, high or low, in or out, up or down, here or there, to—­to—­get himself snimicated wid any liquorary fluid whatsomever, be the same more or less, good, bad, or indifferent, hot or could, thick or thin, black or white—­”

“Have done, Harte; quit your cursed sniftherin’, an’ spake like a Christian; do you think you can manage to circumsniffle him agin?”

“Ay,” said Harte, “or any man that ever trod on neat’s leather—­barrin’ one.”

“And who is that one?”

“That one, sir—­that one—­do you ax me who that one is?”

“Have you no ears?  To be sure I do.”

“Then, Skinadre, I’ll tell you—­I’ll tell you, sarra,”—­we ought to add here, that Harte was a first-rate mimic, and was now doing a drunken man,—­“I’ll tell you, sarra—­that person was Nelson on the top of the monument in Sackville street—­no—­no—­I’m wrong; I could make poor ould Horace drunk any time, an’ often did—­an’ many a turn-tumble he got off the monument at night, and the divil’s own throuble I had in gettin’ him up on it before mornin’, bekaise you all know he’d be cashiered, or, any way, brought to coort martial for leavin’ his po-po-post.”

“Well, if Nelson’s not the man, who is?”

“Drywig’s his name,” replied Harte; “you all know one Drywig, don’t you?”

“Quit your cursed stuff, Harte,” said a new speaker, named Garvey; “if you think you can dose him, say so, and if not, let us have no more talk about it.”

“Faith, an’ it’ll be a nice card to play,” replied Harte, resuming his natural voice; “but at all events, if you will all drop into Garvey’s lodgins and mine, to-morrow evenin’, you may find him there; but don’t blame me if I fail.”

“No one’s goin’ to blame you,” said Slanty, “an’ the devil’s own pity it is that that blasted Drywig of a brother of his keeps him in leadin’ strings the way he does.”

“The way I’ll do is this:  I’ll ask him up to look at the pattern of my new waistcoat, an’ wanst I get him in, all I have to do is to lay it on thick.”

“I doubt that,” said another, who had joined them; “when he came here first, and for a long time afther, soapin’ him might do; but I tell you his eye’s open—­it’s no go—­he’s wide awake now.”

“Shut your orifice,” said Harte; “lave the thing to me; ’twas I did it before, although he doesn’t think so, an’ it’s I that will do it again, although he doesn’t think so.  Haven’t I been for the last mortal month guardin’ him aginst yez, you villains?”

“To-morrow evenin’?”

“Ay, to-morrow evenin’; an’ if we don’t give him a gauliogue that’ll make him dance the circumbendibus widout music—­never believe that my name’s any thing else than Tom Thin, that got thick upon spring wather.  Hello! there’s the bell, boys, so mind what I tould yez; we’ll give him a farewell benefit, if it was only for the sake of poor Drywig.  Ah, poor Drywig! how will he live widout him?  Ochone, ochone! ha, ha, ha!”