rst?--yes, a little. The grip of the honest hand, quite, and the
clinch of an honest waist? Well, 'peut-etre.'

"Of the waist which is not honest?--tsh! he is gay--and so!"

The Irishman took his pipe from his mouth, and held it poised before
him. He looked inquiringly and a little frowningly at the other for a
moment, as if doubtful whether to resent the sneer that accompanied the
words just spoken; but at last he good-humouredly said: "Blood o' me
bones, but it's much I fear the honest waist hasn't always been me
portion--Heaven forgive me!"

"'Nom de pipe,' this Irishman!" replied Pierre. "He is gay; of good
heart; he smiles, and the women are at his heels; he laughs, and they
are on their knees--Such a fool he is!"

Still Shon McGann laughed.

"A fool I am, Pierre, or I'd be in ould Ireland at this minute, with a
roof o' me own over me and the friends o' me youth round me, and brats
on me knee, and the fear o' God in me heart."

"'Mais,' Shon," mockingly rejoined the Frenchman, "this is not Ireland,
but there is much like that to be done here. There is a roof, and there
is that woman at Ward's Mistake, and the brats--eh, by and by?"

Shon's face clouded. He hesitated, then replied sharply: "That woman, do
y' say, Pierre, she that nursed me when the Honourable and meself were
taken out o' Sandy Drift, more dead than livin'; she that brought me
back to life as good as ever, barrin' this scar on me forehead and a
stiffness at me elbow, and the Honourable as right as the sun, more luck
to him! which he doesn't need at all, with the wind of fortune in his
back and shiftin' neither to right nor left.--That woman! faith, y'd
better not cut the words so sharp betune yer teeth, Pierre."

"But I will say more--a little--just the same. She nursed you--well,
that is good; but it is good also, I think, you pay her for that, and
stop the rest. Women are fools, or else they are worse. This one? She is
worse. Yes; you will take my advice, Shon McGann." The Irishman came to
his feet with a spring, and his words were angry.

"It doesn't come well from Pretty Pierre, the gambler, to be revilin'
a woman; and I throw it in y'r face, though I've slept under the same
blanket with ye, an' drunk out of the same cup on manny a tramp, that
you lie dirty and black when ye spake ill--of my wife."

This conversation had occurred in a quiet corner of the bar-room of the
Saints' Repose. The first few sentences had not been heard by the o