Misther Larkins.
Trumps! another--another--hurroo! By the tower of Clonmacnoise, I'll
beggar the bank to-night. _Malhereux au jeux, heureux en amour_, as we
used to say formerly. God forgive us!'

Whether it was the French, or the look that accompanied it, I cannot
aver, but certainly the lady blushed and looked down. In vain did the
poor Quaker essay a word of explanation. In vain did Mrs. Carney herself
try to escape from the awkward inferences some of his allusions seemed
to lead to. Even the old farmer saw his tricks confiscated, and his
games estreated, without a chance of recovery; for, like Coeur de Lion
with his iron mace, the good priest laid about him, smashing, slaying,
and upsetting all before him, and never giving his adversaries a moment
to recover from one blow, ere he dealt another at their heads.

'To be sure, Mrs. Carney, and why not? It's as mild as mother's milk.
Come, ould square-toes, take a thimbleful of it, and maybe it'll lead
you to a better understanding. I play the five fingers, Mr. Larkins.
There goes Jack, my jewel! Play to that--the trick is mine. Don't be
laughing; I've a bit of fat in the heel of my fist for you yet. There
now, what are you looking at? Don't you see the cards? Troth, you 're
as bad as the Quaker; you won't believe your own eyes---- And ye see,
ma'am'--here he whispered something in the lady's ear for a few seconds,
adding as he concluded--'and thim, Mrs. Carney, thim's the rights of
the Church. Friends, indeed! ye call yourselves friends! Faix, ye're the
least social friends I ever forgathered with, even if the bare look
of you wasn't an antidote to all kinds of amusements---- Cut, Mr.
Larkins---- And it's purgatory ye don't like? Ye know what Father
O'Leary said, "Some of ye may go farther and fare worse," not to speak
of what a place heaven would be, with the likes of you in it---- Av it
was Mrs. Carney, indeed. Yes, Mary, your own beautiful self, that's
fit to be an angel any day, and discoorse with angels---- Howld, av
you please, I've a club for that---- Don't you see what nonsense you're
talking--the little kettle is laughing at you---- What's that you 're
mumbling about my time of life? Show me the man that'll carry twelve
tumblers with me; show me the man that'll cross a country; show me the
man that 'll---- Never mind, Mrs. Carney---- Time of life, indeed! Faix,
I'll give you a song.'

With these words, the priest pushed the cards aside, replenished the
glass