“Boys,” said Harte, “go off wid yez out o’ this, I say; divil a foot you’ll come in.”

“Arra go to—­Jimmaiky; who cares about you, Syl, when we have Art’s liberty?  Sure we didn’t know the thing ourselves half an hour ago.”

“Come, Syl, man alive,” said Art, “let the poor fellows enjoy their liquor, an’, as I can’t join yez, I’ll take my hat an’ be off.”

“I knew it, an’ bad luck to yez, how yez ’ud drive him away,” said Syl, quite angry.

“Faix, if we disturb you, Art, we’re off—­that ’ud be too bad; yes, Syl, you were right, it was very thoughtless of us:  Art, we ax your pardon, sorra one of us meant you any offence in life—­come, boys.”

Art’s generosity was thus fairly challenged, and he was not to be outdone—­

“Aisy, boys,” said he; “sit down; I’ll not go, if that’ll plaise yez; sure you’ll neither eat me nor dhrink me.”

“Well, there’s jist one word you said, Slanty, that makes me submit to it,” observed Harte, “an’ that is, that it was accident your comin’ at all;” he here looked significantly at Art, as if to remind him of their previous conversation on that day, and as he did it, his face gradually assumed a complacent expression, as much as to say, it’s now clear that this cannot be the trap they designed for you, otherwise it wouldn’t be accidental.  Art understood him, and returned a look which satisfied the other that he did so.

As they warmed in their liquor, or pretended to get warm, many sly attempts to entrap him were made, every one of which was openly and indignantly opposed by Harte, who would not suffer them to offer him a drop.

It is not our intention to dwell upon these matters:  at present it is sufficient to say, that after a considerable part of the evening had been spent, Harte rose up, and called upon them all to fill their glasses—­

“And,” he added, “as this is a toast that ought always to bring a full glass to the mouth, and an empty one from it, I must take the liberty of axin Art himself to fill a bumper.”

The latter looked at him with a good deal of real surprise, as the others did with that which was of a very different description.

“Skinadre,” proceeded Harte, “will you hand over the cowld wather, for a bumper it must be, if it was vitriol.”  He then filled Art’s glass with water, and proceeded—­“Stand up, boys, and be proud, as you have a right to be; here’s the health of Frank Maguire, and the ould blood of Ireland!—­hip, hip, hurra!”

“Aisy, boys,” said Art, whose heart was fired by this unexpected compliment, paid to a brother whom he loved so well, and who, indeed, so well, deserved his love; “aisy, boys,” he proceeded, “hand me the whiskey; if it was to be my last, I’ll never drink my brother’s health in cowld wather.”

“Throth an’ you will this time,” said Harte, “undher this roof spirits won’t crass; your lips, an’ you know for why.”

“I know but one thing,” replied Art, “that as you said yourself, if it was vitriol, I’d dhrink it for the best brother that ever lived; I only promised him that I wouldn’t get dhrunk, an’ sure, drinkin’ a glass o’ whiskey, or three either, wouldn’t make me dhrunk—­so hand it here.”