“Why, all I can say is, that we’ll get ourselves called on Sunday next.  Let himself, sure, send some one to autorise the priest to call us.  An’ now that’s all settled, don’t I desarve somethin’?  Oh, be gorra, surely.”

“Behave, Phelim—­oh—­oh—­Phelim, now—­there you’ve tuck it—­och, the curse o’ the crows on you, see the way you have my hair down!  There now, you broke my comb, too.  Troth, you’re a wild slip, Phelim.  I hope you won’t be goin’ on this way wid the girls, when you get married.”

“Is it me you coaxer?  No, faith, I’ll wear a pair of winkers, for fraid o’ lookin’ at them at all!  Oh be gorra, no, bally, I’ll lave that to the great people.  Sure, they say, the divil a differ they make at all.”

“Go off now, Phelim, till I get ready, an’ set out to my father.  But, Phelim, never breathe a word about him bein’ in goal.  No one knows it but ourselves—­that is, none o’ the neighbors.”

“I’ll sing dumb,” said Phelim.  “Well, binaght lath, a rogarah!* Tell him the thruth—­to be game, an’ he’ll find you an’ me sweeled together whin he comes out, plase Goodness.”

     * My blessing be with you, you rogue!

Phelim was but a few minutes gone, when the old military cap of Fool Art projected from the little bed-room, which a wicker wall, plastered with mud, divided from the other part of the cabin.

“Is he gone?” said Art.

“You may come out, Art,” said she, “he’s gone.”

“Ha!” said Art, triumphantly, “I often tould him, when he vexed me an’ pelted me wid snow-balls, that I’d come along sides wid him yet.  An’ it’s not over aither.  Fool Art can snore when he’s not asleep, an’ see wid his eyes shut.  Wherroo for Art!”

“But, Art, maybe he intinds to marry the housekeeper afther all?”

     “Hi the colic, the colic! 
     An’ ho the colic for Phelim!”

“Then you think he won’t, Art?”

     “Hi the colic, the colic! 
     An’ ho the colic for Phelim!”

“Now, Art, don’t say a word about my father not bein’ in gaol.  He’s to be back from my grandfather’s in a short time, an’ if we manage well, you’ll see what you’ll get, Art—­a brave new shirt, Art.”

“Art has the lane for Phelim, but it’s not the long one wid no turn in it.  Wherroo for Art!”

Phelim, on his return home, felt queer; here was a second matrimonial predicament, considerably worse than the first, into which he was hooked decidedly against his will.  The worst feature in this case was the danger to be apprehended from Foodie Flattery’s disclosures, should he take it into his head to ’peach upon his brother Whiteboys.  Indeed, Phelim began to consider it a calamity that he ever entered into their system at all; for, on running over his exploits along with them, he felt that he was liable to be taken up any morning of the week, and lodged in one of his majesty’s boarding-houses.  The only security he had was the honesty of his confederates;