Phelim Otoole's Courtship and Other Stories Part 33

"Why," said Harte, "if I'm not allowed to edge in a word, I had betther cut."

"A most solemn promise, you say?"

"A most solemn and solemnious promise, that was what I said; never again by night or day, wet or dry, high or low, in or out, up or down, here or there, to--to--get himself snimicated wid any liquorary fluid whatsomever, be the same more or less, good, bad, or indifferent, hot or could, thick or thin, black or white--"

"Have done, Harte; quit your cursed sniftherin', an' spake like a Christian; do you think you can manage to circ.u.msniffle him agin?"

"Ay," said Harte, "or any man that ever trod on neat's leather--barrin'

one."

"And who is that one?"

"That one, sir--that one--do you ax me who that one is?"

"Have you no ears? To be sure I do."

"Then, Skinadre, I'll tell you--I'll tell you, sarra,"--we ought to add here, that Harte was a first-rate mimic, and was now doing a drunken man,--"I'll tell you, sarra--that person was Nelson on the top of the monument in Sackville street--no--no--I'm wrong; I could make poor ould Horace drunk any time, an' often did--an' many a turn-tumble he got off the monument at night, and the divil's own throuble I had in gettin' him up on it before mornin', bekaise you all know he'd be cas.h.i.+ered, or, any way, brought to coort martial for leavin' his po-po-post."

"Well, if Nelson's not the man, who is?"

"_Drywig's_ his name," replied Harte; "you all know one _Drywig_, don't you?"

"Quit your cursed stuff, Harte," said a new speaker, named Garvey; "if you think you can dose him, say so, and if not, let us have no more talk about it."

"Faith, an' it'll be a nice card to play," replied Harte, resuming his natural voice; "but at all events, if you will all drop into Garvey's lodgins and mine, to-morrow evenin', you may find him there; but don't blame me if I fail."

"No one's goin' to blame you," said Slanty, "an' the devil's own pity it is that that blasted _Drywig_ of a brother of his keeps him in leadin'

strings the way he does."

"The way I'll do is this: I'll ask him up to look at the pattern of my new waistcoat, an' wanst I get him in, all I have to do is to lay it on thick."

"I doubt that," said another, who had joined them; "when he came here first, and for a long time afther, soapin' him might do; but I tell you his eye's open--it's no go--he's wide awake now."

"Shut your orifice," said Harte; "lave the thing to me; 'twas I did it before, although he doesn't think so, an' it's I that will do it again, although he doesn't think so. Haven't I been for the last mortal month guardin' him aginst yez, you villains?"

"To-morrow evenin'?"

"Ay, to-morrow evenin'; an' if we don't give him a gauliogue that'll make him dance the circ.u.mbendibus widout music--never believe that my name's any thing else than Tom Thin, that got thick upon spring wather.

h.e.l.lo! there's the bell, boys, so mind what I tould yez; we'll give him a farewell benefit, if it was only for the sake of poor _Drywig_. Ah, poor _Drywig!_ how will he live widout him? Ochone, ochone! ha, ha, ha!"

Without at all suspecting the trap that had been set for him, Art attended his business as usual, till towards evening, when Harte took an opportunity, when he got him for a few minutes by himself, of speaking to him apparently in a careless and indifferent way.

"Art, that's a nate patthern in your waistcoat; but any how, I dunna how it is that you contrive to have every thing about you dacenter an'

jinteeler than another." This, by the way, was true, both of him and his brother.

"Tut, it's but middlin'," said Art; "it's now but a has-been:--when it was at itself it wasn't so bad."

"Begad, it was lovely wanst; now; how do you account, Art, for bein'

supairior to us in all in--in every thing, I may say; ay, begad, in every thing, and in all things, for that's a point every one allows."

"Nonsense, Syl" (his name was Sylvester), "don't be comin' it soft over me; how am I betther than any other?"

"Why, you're betther made, in the first place, than e'er a man among us; in the next place, you're a betther workman;"--both these were true--"an', in the third place, you're the best lookin' of the whole pack; an' now deny these if you can:--eh, ha, ha, ha--my lad, I have you!"

An involuntary smile might be observed on Art's face at the last observation, which also was true.

"Syl," he replied, "behave yourself; what are you at now? I know you."

"Know me!" exclaimed Syl; "why what do you know of me? Nothing that's bad I hope, any way."

"None of your palaver, at all events," replied Art; "have you got any tobaccy about you?"

"Sorra taste," replied Harte, "nor had since mornin'."

"Well, I have then," said Art, pulling out a piece, and throwing it to him with the air of a superior; "warm your gums wid that, for altho' I seldom take a blast myself, I don't forget them that do."

"Ah, begorra," said Harte, in an undertone that was designed to be heard, "there's something in the ould blood still; thank you, Art, faix it's yourself that hasn't your heart in a trifle, nor ever had. I bought a waistcoat on Sat.u.r.day last from Paddy M'Gartland, but I only tuck it on the condition of your likin' it."

"Me! ha, ha, ha, well, sure enough, Syl, you're the quarest fellow alive; why, man, isn't it yourself you have to plaise, not me."

"No matther for that, I'm not goin' to put my judgment in comparishment wid yours, at any rate; an' Paddy M'Gartland himself said, 'Syl, my boy, you know what you're about; if this patthern plaises Art Maguire, it'll plaise anybody; see what it is,' says he, 'to have the fine high ould blood in one's veins.' Begad he did; will you come up this evenin' about seven o'clock, now, like a good fellow, an' pa.s.s your opinion for me?

Divil a dacent st.i.tch I have, an' I want either it, or another, made up before the ball night."*

* Country dances, or b.a.l.l.s, in which the young men pay from ten to fifteen pence for whiskey "to trate the ladies." We hope they will be abolished.

"Well, upon my soundhers, Syl, I did not think you were such a fool; of coorse I'll pa.s.s my opinion on it--about seven o'clock, you say."

"About seven--thank you, Art; an' now listen;--sure the boys intind to play off some prank upon you afore you lave us."

"On me," replied the other, reddening; "very well, Syl, let them do so; I can bear a joke, or give a blow, as well as another; so divil may care, such as they give, such as they'll get--only this, let there be no attempt to make me drink whiskey, or else there may be harder hittin'

than some o' them 'ud like, an' I think they ought to know that by this time."

"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 pa.s.s 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."