unsteady hands to compensate for his lost time; it was now, however, too late—­the evil habit had been contracted—­the citadel had been taken—­the waters had been poisoned at their source—­the small track with the naked foot had been made.  From this time forward he did little but make resolutions to-day, which he broke tomorrow; in the course of some time he began to drink with his own workmen, and even admitted his apprentices to their potations.  Toal Finnigan, and about six or eight dissolute and drunken fellows, inhabitants of Ballykeerin, were his constant companions, and never had they a drinking bout that he was not sent for:  sometimes they would meet in his own workshop, which was turned into a tap-room, and there drink the better part of the day.  Of course the workmen could not be forgotten in their potations, and, as a natural consequence, all work was suspended, business at a stand, time lost, and morals corrupted.

His companions now availed themselves of his foibles, winch they drew out into more distinct relief.  Joined to an overweening desire to hear himself praised, was another weakness, which proved to be very beneficial to his companions; this was a swaggering and consequential determination, when tipsy, to pay the whole reckoning, and to treat every one he knew.

He was a Maguire—­he was a gentleman—­had the old blood in his veins, and that he might never handle a plane, if any man present should pay a shilling, so long as he was to the fore.  This was an argument in which he always had the best of it; his companions taking care, even if he happened to forget it, that some chance word or hint should bring it to his memory.

“Here, Barney Scaddhan—­Barney, I say, what’s the reckonin’, you sinner?  Now, Art Maguire, divil a penny of this you’ll pay for—­you’re too ginerous, an’ have the heart of a prince.”

“And kind family for him to have the heart of a prince, sure we all know what the Fermanagh Maguires wor; of coorse we won’t let him pay.”

“Toal Finnigan, do you want me to rise my hand to you?  I tell you that a single man here won’t pay a penny o’ reckonin’, while I’m to the good; and, to make short work of it, by the contints o’ the book, I’ll strike the first of ye that’ll attempt it.  Now!”

“Faix, an’ I for one,” said Toal, “won’t come undher your fist; it’s little whiskey ever I’d drink if I did.”

“Well, well,” the others would exclaim, “that ends it; howendiver, never mind, Art, I’ll engage we’ll have our revenge on you for that—­the next meetin’ you won’t carry it all your own way; we’ll be as stiff as you’ll be stout, my boy, although you beat us out of it now.”

“Augh,” another would say, in a whisper especially designed for him, “by the livin’ farmer there never was one, even of the Maguires, like him, an’ that’s no lie.”

Art would then pay the reckoning with the air of a nobleman, or, if he happened to be without money, he would order it to be scored to him, for as yet his credit was good.