the drink and the oysters, were viewed with no small impatience
by the anxious editor.

"You must remember, Captain, time's passing; the placards are all out. Must
be at press before one o'clock to-night,--the morning edition is everything
with us. You were at the first parallel, I think."

"Devil a one o' me knows. Just ring that bell near you. Them's elegant
oysters; and you're not taking your drop of liquor. Here's a toast for you:
'May--' Whoop! raal Carlingford's, upon my conscience! See now, if I won't
hit the little black chap up there the first shot."

Scarcely were the words spoken, when a little painted bust of Shakespeare
fell in fragments on the floor, as an oyster-shell laid him low.

A faint effort at a laugh at the eccentricities of his friend was all the
poor editor could accomplish, while Mike's triumph knew no bounds.

"Didn't I tell you? But come now, are you ready? Give the pen a drink, if
you won't take one yourself."

"I am ready, quite ready," responded the editor.

"Faith, and it's more nor I am. See now, here it is: The night was
murthering dark; you could not see a stim."

"Not see a--a what?"

"A stim, bad luck to you; don't you know English? Hand me the hot water.
Have you that down yet?"

"Yes. Pray proceed."

"The Fifth Division was orthered up, bekase they were fighting chaps; the
Eighty-eighth was among them; the Rangers--Oh, upon my soul, we must drink
the Rangers! Here, devil a one o' me will go on till we give them all the
honors--Hip!--begin."

"Hip!" sighed the luckless editor, as he rose from his chair, obedient to
the command.

"Hurra! hurra! hurra! Well done! There's stuff in you yet, ould foolscap!
The little bottle's empty; ring again, if ye plaze.

'Oh, Father Magan
Was a beautiful man,
But a bit of a rogue, a bit of a rogue!
He was just six feet high,
Had a cast in his eye,
And an illigint brogue, an illigint brogue!

'He was born in Killarney,
And reared up in blarney--'

"Arrah, don't be looking miserable and dissolute that way. Sure, I'm only
screwing myself up for you; besides, you can print the song av you like.
It's a sweet tune, 'Teddy, you Gander,'"

"Really, Mr. Free, I see no prospect of our ever getting done."

"The saints in Heaven forbid!" interrupted Mike, piously; "the evening's
young, and drink plenty. Here now, make ready!"

The editor once more made a gesture of preparation.

"Well, as I was saying,"