“Divil a sich a pest ever this house had as the same Art when he was a blackguard,” said young Scaddhan; “there was no keepin' him out of it, but constantly spungin' upon the dacent people that wor dhrmkin' in it.” “Many a good pound and penny he left you for all that, Barney, my lad,” said Mooney; “and purty tratement you gave him when his money was gone.” “Ay, an' we'd give you the same,” returned Scaddhan, “if your's was gone, too; ha, ha, ha! it's not moneyless vagabones we want here.” “No,” said Shannon, “you first make them moneyless vagabones, an' then you kick them out o' doors, as you did him.” “Exactly,” said the hardened miscreant, “that's the way we live; when we get the skin off the cat, then we throw out the carcass.” “Why, dang it, man,” said Whiskey, “would you expect honest Barney here, or his still honester ould rip of a father, bad as they are, to give us drink for nothing?” “Now,” said Finnigan, who had not yet spoken, “yez are talkin' about Art Maguire, and I'll tell yez what I could do; I could bend my finger that way, an' make him folly me over the parish.” “And how could you do that?” asked Whiskey. “By soodherin' him--by ticklin' his empty pride--by dwellin' on the ould blood of Ireland, the great Fermanagh Maguires--or by tellin' him that he's betther than any one else, and could do what nobody else could.” “Could you make him drunk to-night?” asked Shannon. “Ay,” said Toal, “an' will, too, as ever you seen him in your lives; only whin I'm praisin' him do some of you oppose me, an' if I propose any thing to be done, do you all either support me in it, or go aginst me, accordin' as you see he may take it.” “Well, then,” said Mooney, “in ordher to put you in spirits, go off, Barney, an' slip a glass o' whiskey a piece into this cordial, jist to tighten it a bit--ha, ha, ha!” “Ay,” said Tom Whiskey, “till we dhrink success to teetotalism, ha, ha, ha!” “Suppose you do him in the cordial,” said Shannon. “Never mind,” replied Toal; “I'll first soften him a little on the cordial, and then make him tip the punch openly and before faces, like a man.” “Troth, it's a sin,” observed Moonoy, who began to disrelish the project; “if it was only on account of his wife an' childre.” Toal twisted his misshapen mouth into still greater deformity at this observation-- “Well,” said he, “no matter, it'll only be a good joke; Art is a dacent fellow, and afther this night we won't repate it. Maybe,” he continued “I may find it necessary to vex him, an' if I do, remember you won't let him get at me, or my bread's baked.”