“Well, upon my soundhers, Syl, I did not think you were such a fool; of coorse I’ll pass my opinion on it—­about seven o’clock, you say.”

“About seven—­thank you, Art; an’ now listen;—­sure the boys intind to play off some prank upon you afore you lave us.”

“On me,” replied the other, reddening; “very well, Syl, let them do so; I can bear a joke, or give a blow, as well as another; so divil may care, such as they give, such as they’ll get—­only this, let there be no attempt to make me drink whiskey, or else there may be harder hittin’ than some o’ them ‘ud like, an’ I think they ought to know that by this time.”

“By jing, they surely ought; well, but can you spell mum?”

“M-u-m.”

“Ha, ha, ha, take care of yourself, an’ don’t forget seven.”

“Never fear.”

“Frank,” said Art, “I’m goin’ up to Syl Harte’s lodgin’s to pass my opinion on the patthern of a waistcoat for him.”

“Very well,” said Frank, “of coorse.”

“I’ll not stop long.”

“As long or short as you like, Art, my boy.”

“I hope, Frank, you don’t imagine that there’s any danger of drink?”

“Who, me—­why should I, afther what passed?  Didn’t you give me your word, and isn’t your name Maguire?  Not I.”

Art had seen, and approved of the pattern, and was chatting with Syl, when a knock came to the room door in which they sat; Syl rose, and opening the door, immediately closed it after him, and began in a low voice to remonstrate with some persons outside.  At length Art could hear the subject of debate pretty well—­

“Sorra foot yez will put inside the room this evenin’, above all evenin’s in the year.”

“Why, sure we know he won’t drink.  I wish to goodness we knew he had been here; we wouldn’t ax him to drink, bekase we know he wouldn’t.

“No matther for that, sorrow foot yez’ll put acrass the thrashel this evenin’; now, I’ll toll you what, Skinadre, I wouldn’t this blessed minute, for all I’ve earned these six months, that ye came this evenin’;—­I have my raisons for it; Art Maguire is a boy that we have no right to compare ourselves wid—­you all know that.”

“We all know it, and there’s nobody denyin’ it; we haven’t the blood in our veins that he has, an’ blood will show itself anywhere.”

“Well then, boys, for his sake—­an’ I know you’d do any day for his sake what you wouldn’t, nor what you oughtn’t, for mine—­for his sake, I say, go off wid yez, and bring your liquor somewhere else, or sure wait till to-morrow evenin’.”

“Out of respect for Art Maguire we’ll go; an’ divil another boy in the province we’d pay that respect to; good-evenin’, Syl!”

“Aisy, boys,” said Art, coming to the door, “don’t let me frighten you—­come in—­I’d be very sorry to be the means of spoilin’ sport, although I can’t drink myself; that wouldn’t be generous—­come in.”

“Augh,” said Skinadre, “by the livin’ it’s in him, an’ I always knew it was—­the rale drop.”