"

"By jing, they surely ought; well, but can you spell mum?"

"M-u-m."

"Ha, ha, ha, take care of yourself, an' don't forget seven."

"Never fear."

"Frank," said Art, "I'm goin' up to Syl Harte's lodgin's to pass my
opinion on the patthern of a waistcoat for him."

"Very well," said Frank, "of coorse."

"I'll not stop long."

"As long or short as you like, Art, my boy."

"I hope, Frank, you don't imagine that there's any danger of drink?"

"Who, me--why should I, afther what passed? Didn't you give me your
word, and isn't your name Maguire? Not I."

Art had seen, and approved of the pattern, and was chatting with Syl,
when a knock came to the room door in which they sat; Syl rose, and
opening the door, immediately closed it after him, and began in a low
voice to remonstrate with some persons outside. At length Art could hear
the subject of debate pretty well--

"Sorra foot yez will put inside the room this evenin', above all
evenin's in the year."

"Why, sure we know he won't drink. I wish to goodness we knew he had
been here; we wouldn't ax him to drink, bekase we know he wouldn't.

"No matther for that, sorrow foot yez'll put acrass the thrashel this
evenin'; now, I'll toll you what, Skinadre, I wouldn't this blessed
minute, for all I've earned these six months, that ye came this
evenin';--I have my raisons for it; Art Maguire is a boy that we have no
right to compare ourselves wid--you all know that."

"We all know it, and there's nobody denyin' it; we haven't the blood in
our veins that he has, an' blood will show itself anywhere."

"Well then, boys, for his sake--an' I know you'd do any day for his sake
what you wouldn't, nor what you oughtn't, for mine--for his sake, I say,
go off wid yez, and bring your liquor somewhere else, or sure wait till
to-morrow evenin'."

"Out of respect for Art Maguire we'll go; an' divil another boy in the
province we'd pay that respect to; good-evenin', Syl!"

"Aisy, boys," said Art, coming to the door, "don't let me frighten
you--come in--I'd be very sorry to be the means of spoilin' sport,
although I can't drink myself; that wouldn't be generous--come in."

"Augh," said Skinadre, "by the livin' it's in him, an' I always knew it
was--the rale drop."

"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