"Come man," said the father, "be sharp, spake out bravely, an' don't be
afraid; nor don't be in a hurry aither, we'll wait for you."

"Let him alone--let him alone," said Corcoran; "I'll face the same boy
agin the county for cuteness. If he doesn't expound that, I'll never
consthru a line of Latin, or Greek, or Masoretic, while I'm livin'."

His cunning master knew right well that the boy, who was only confused
at the suddenness of the question, would feel no difficulty in answering
it to his satisfaction. Indeed, it was impossible for him to miss it, as
he was then reading the seventh book of Virgil, and the fourth of Homer.
It is, however, a trick with such masters to put simple questions of
that nature to their pupils, when at the houses of their parents, as
knotty and difficult, and when they are answered, to assume an air of
astonishment at the profound reach of thought displayed by the pupil.

When Michael recovered himself, he instantly replied, "_Mortalium_ is
the genitive case of nemo, by '_Nomina Partiva_.'"

Corcoran laid down the tumbler, which he was in the act of raising to
his lips, and looked at the lad with an air of surprise and delight,
then at the farmer and his wife, alternately, and shook his head with
much mystery. "Michael," said he to the lad; "will you go out and tell
us what the night's doin'."

The boy accordingly went out--"Why," said Corcoran, in his absence, "if
ever there was a phanix, and that boy will be the bird--an Irish phanix
he will be, a

_Rara avis in terris, nigroque simillima cygno!_

There's no batin' him at anything he undher-takes. Why, there's thim
that are makin' good bread by their larnin', that couldn't resolve that;
and you all saw how he did it widout the book! Why, if he goes on at
this rate, I'm afraid he'll soon be too many for myself--hem!"

"Too many for yourself! Fill the masther's tumbler, Alley. Too many for
yourself! No, no! I doubt he'll never see that day, bright as he is, an'
cute. That's it--put a hape upon it. Give me your hand, masther. I thank
you for your attention to him, an' the boy is a credit to us. Come over,
Michael, avourneen. Here, take what's in this tumbler, an' finish it.
Be a good boy and mind your lessons, an' do everything the masther
here--the Lord bless him!--bids you; an' you'll never want a frind,
masther, nor a dinner, nor a bed, nor a guinea, while the Lord spares me
aither the one or the other."

"I know it, Mr. Lanigan, I