“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,” resumed Mike, “it was pitch dark when the columns moved up, and a cold, raw night, with a little thin rain falling. Have you that down?” “Yes. Pray go on.” “Well, just as it might be here, at the corner of the trench, I met Dr. Quill. ‘They’re waiting for you, Mr. Free,’ says he, ‘down there. Picton’s asking for you.’ ‘Faith, and he must wait,’ says I, ‘for I’m terrible dry.’ With that, he pulled out his canteen and mixed me a little brandy-and-water. ‘Are you taking it without a toast?’ says Doctor Maurice. ‘Never fear,’ says I; ‘here’s Mary Brady--’” “But, my dear sir,” interposed Mr. Meekins, “pray _do_ remember this is somewhat irrelevant. In fifteen minutes it will be twelve o’clock.” “I know it, ould boy, I know it. I see what you’re at. You were going to observe how much better we’d be for a broiled bone.” “Nothing of the kind, I assure you. For Heaven’s sake, no more eating and drinking!” “No more eating nor drinking! Why not? You’ve a nice notion of a convivial evening. Faith, we’ll have the broiled bone sure enough, and, what’s more, a half gallon of the strongest punch they can make us; an’ I hope that, grave as you are, you’ll favor the company with a song.” “Really, Mr. Free--” “Arrah, none of your blarney! Don’t be misthering me! Call me Mickey, or Mickey Free, if you like better.” “I protest,” said the editor, with dismay, “that here we are two hours at work, and we haven’t got to the foot of the great breach.” “And wasn’t the army three months and a half in just getting that far, with a battering train and mortars and the finest troops ever were seen? And there you sit, a little fat creature, with your pen in your hand, grumbling that you can’t do more than the whole British army. Take care you don’t provoke me to beat you; for I am quiet till I’m roused. But, by the Rock o’ Cashel--” Here he grasped the brass trumpet with an energy that made the editor spring from his chair. “For mercy’s sake, Mr. Free--” “Well, I won’t; but sit down there, and don’t be bothering me about sieges and battles and things you know nothing about.”