The two troublesome travelers had, meantime, located themselves in separate seats, as near each other as possible; the darkey said no more, and quiet reigned for a moment or so. Glancing out at my window, which I had raised, I presently saw two Irishmen—both drunk—approaching the car; and one of them was carrying a valise, a fiddle, a hat-box, a saw, a side of leather, an overcoat and an extra pair of boots. He was evidently going on a journey; but the other was in his shirt-sleeves, and had only accompanied him to the train to see him off. “Good-by, Mike,” said he in his shirt-sleeves. “Take gude care o’ yer-sel.” “I’ll do that, Zhammie,” said the traveler, who was the drunkest of the two. “When’ll’seeyez’gin, m’b’y?” “I’ll mate ye’n Whalin’, Mike. Steek till the cause, me boy. Don’t forgit the Fanians an’ yer counthry!” By this time, a number of the passengers who sat on the same side of the car with me had raised their windows, and were now listening to this dialogue, much amused. The conversation was carried on in loud, harsh tones. “F’rgit m’ counthry an’ th’ cause? Och! I shud thaink naught,” said the Milesian traveler, who was now about to ascend the steps to the platform of the car I was in. He paused a moment, before blundering up, and then struck up a patriotic Fenian song, the first verse of which was something like this: “Och! Kra! Kri mo kreeh! mee barry braugh,   Augh quih-queeh, McQuairy, O!  Grah me Kreh! Grah me Kree! Ahkushlee! Hurrah!   Mike graughin, Och borry bro!” “Good me b’y!” exclaimed his friend, grasping his hand. “Wull done, that! Now, good-by, Mike. Tak care o’ yer-sel!” “Good-by, till ye, Zhammie. God be good till ye!” After shaking hands cordially, they parted. He in his shirt-sleeves, James, by name, walked away, with some sadness naturally engendered by the parting; while Michael entered the car and took a seat by the darkey—for all the rest were entirely occupied by this time—his saw, as he sat down, accidentally grazing the darkey’s cheek, and coming within half-an-inch of sawing one of his white eyes out. “’Scuse me, dairlint,” said Mike; and he deposited his luggage down among both their feet, threw himself carelessly back in his seat, with his cheek resting on his dusky companion’s shoulder, and soon fell asleep. The pleasant (?) time the conductor had waking him, when he came round for his ticket, might be described with excellent effect, by a professional humorist; but let the reader picture it in his imagination. CHAPTER XXVII. MCCULLOCH’S LEAP.