“Paddy,” said Larry, in a friendly whisper, “put this whiskey past for a while, barrin’ this bottle that we must taste for good luck.  Sam Appleton’s to come up afther us an’, I suppose, some o’ your own cleavens ’ll be here afther a while.”

“Thrue for you,” said Donovan.  “Jemmy Burn and Antony Devlin is to come over presently.  But, Larry, this is nonsense.  One bottle o’ whiskey was lashins; my Goodness, what’ll we be doin’ wid a whole gallon?”

“Dacency or nothin’, Paddy; if it was my last I’d show sperit, an’ why not?  Who’d be for the shabby thing?”

“Well, well, Larry, I can’t say but you’re right afther all!  Maybe I’d do the same thing myself, for all I’m spakin’ aginst it.”

The old people then passed round an introductory glass, after which they chatted away for an hour or so, somewhat like the members of a committee who talk upon indifferent topics until their brethren are all assembled.

Phelim, in the meantime, grappled with the daughter, whose knitting he spoiled by hooking the thread with his finger, jogging her elbow until he ran the needles past each other, and finally unravelling her clew; all which she bore with great good-humor.  Sometimes, indeed, she ventured to give him a thwack upon the shoulder, with a laughing frown upon her countenance, in order to correct him for teasing her.

When Jemmy Burn and Antony Devlin arrived, the spirits of the party got up.  The whiskey was formally produced, but as yet the subject of the courtship, though perfectly understood, was not introduced.  Phelim and the father were anxious to await the presence of Sam Appleton, who was considered, by the way, a first-rate hand at match-making.

Phelim, as is the wont, on finding the din of the conversation raised to the proper pitch, stole one of the bottles and prevailed on Peggy to adjourn with him to the potato-bin.  Here they ensconced themselves very snugly; but not, as might be supposed, contrary to the knowledge and consent of the seniors, who winked at each other on seeing Phelim gallantly tow her down with the bottle under his arm.  It was only the common usage on such occasions, and not considered any violation whatsoever of decorum.  When Phelim’s prior engagements are considered, it must be admitted that there was something singularly ludicrous in the humorous look he gave over his shoulder at the company, as he went toward the bin, having the bottom of the whiskey-bottle projecting behind his elbow, winking at them in return, by way of a hint to mind their own business and allow him to plead for himself.  The bin, however, turned out to be rather an uneasy seat, for as the potatoes lay in a slanting heap against the wall, Phelim and his sweetheart were perpetually sliding down from the top to the bottom.  Phelim could be industrious when it suited his pleasure.  In a few minutes those who sat about the fire imagined, from the noise at the bin, that the house was about to come about their ears.