an hour ago."

"Come, Syl, man alive," said Art, "let the poor fellows enjoy their
liquor, an', as I can't join yez, I'll take my hat an' be off."

"I knew it, an' bad luck to yez, how yez 'ud drive him away," said Syl,
quite angry.

"Faix, if we disturb you, Art, we're off--that 'ud be too bad; yes, Syl,
you were right, it was very thoughtless of us: Art, we ax your pardon,
sorra one of us meant you any offence in life--come, boys."

Art's generosity was thus fairly challenged, and he was not to be
outdone--

"Aisy, boys," said he; "sit down; I'll not go, if that'll plaise yez;
sure you'll neither eat me nor dhrink me."

"Well, there's jist one word you said, Slanty, that makes me submit to
it," observed Harte, "an' that is, that it was accident your comin' at
all;" he here looked significantly at Art, as if to remind him of their
previous conversation on that day, and as he did it, his face gradually
assumed a complacent expression, as much as to say, it's now clear that
this cannot be the trap they designed for you, otherwise it wouldn't be
accidental. Art understood him, and returned a look which satisfied the
other that he did so.

As they warmed in their liquor, or pretended to get warm, many sly
attempts to entrap him were made, every one of which was openly and
indignantly opposed by Harte, who would not suffer them to offer him a
drop.

It is not our intention to dwell upon these matters: at present it is
sufficient to say, that after a considerable part of the evening had
been spent, Harte rose up, and called upon them all to fill their
glasses--

"And," he added, "as this is a toast that ought always to bring a full
glass to the mouth, and an empty one from it, I must take the liberty of
axin Art himself to fill a bumper."

The latter looked at him with a good deal of real surprise, as the
others did with that which was of a very different description.

"Skinadre," proceeded Harte, "will you hand over the cowld wather, for
a bumper it must be, if it was vitriol." He then filled Art's glass with
water, and proceeded--"Stand up, boys, and be proud, as you have a
right to be; here's the health of Frank Maguire, and the ould blood of
Ireland!--hip, hip, hurra!"

"Aisy, boys," said Art, whose heart was fired by this unexpected
compliment, paid to a brother whom he loved so well, and who, indeed,
so well, deserved his love; "aisy, boys," he proceeded, "hand me the
whiskey; if it was to be my last,