ur
solemn and serious intention to abide by it. My question 'll be very
short and very simple; your answer, as I said, will be merely yes or no.
Will you ever allow these fellows to make you drunk again? Yes or no,
an' not another word."

"No."

"That will do," said Frank; "now give me your hand, and a single word
upon what has passed you will never hear from me."

In large manufactories, and in workshops similar to that in which the
two brothers were now serving their apprenticeship, almost every
one knows that the drunken and profligate entertain an unaccountable
antipathy against the moral and the sober. Art's last fit of
intoxication was not only a triumph over himself, but, what was still
more, a triumph over his brother, who had so often prevented him from
falling into their snares and joining in their brutal excesses. It
so happened, however, that about this precise period, Art had,
unfortunately, contracted an intimacy with one of the class I speak of,
an adroit fellow with an oily tongue, vast powers of flattery, and
still greater powers of bearing liquor--for Frank could observe, that
notwithstanding all their potations, he never on any occasion
observed him affected by drink, a circumstance which raised him in his
estimation, because he considered that he was rather an obliging, civil
young fellow, who complied so far as to give these men his society, but
yet had sufficient firmness to resist the temptations to drink beyond
the bounds of moderation. The upshot of all this was, that Frank, not
entertaining any suspicion particularly injurious to Harte, for such
was his name, permitted his brother to associate with him much more
frequently than he would have done, had he even guessed at his real
character.

One day, about a month after the conversation which we have just
detailed between the two brothers, the following conversation took place
among that class of the mechanics whom we shall term the profligates:--

"So he made a solemn promise, Harte, to _Drywig_"--this was a nickname
they had for Frank--"that he'd never smell liquor again."

"A most solemnious promise," said Harte ironically; "a most solemn and
solemnious promise; an' only that I know he's not a Methodist, I could
a'most mistake him for Paddy M'Mahon, the locality preacher, when he
tould me--"

"Paddy M'Mahon!" exclaimed Skinadre, the first speaker, a little thin
fellow, with white hair and red ferret eyes; "why, who the divil ever
he