Art sallied down to the hedge on which the linen had been put out to dry, and having reconnoitered the premises, shrugged himself, and cast a longing eye on the third shirt. With that knavish penetration, however, peculiar to such persons, he began to reflect that Sally might have some other object in view besides his accommodation. He determined, therefore, to proceed upon new principles--sufficiently safe, he thought, to protect him from the consequences of theft. “Good-morrow, Bush,” said Art, addressing that on which the third shirt was spread. “Isn't it a burnin' shame an' a sin for you,” he continued, “to have sich a line white shirt an you, an' me widout a stitch to my back. Will you swap?” Having waited until the bush had due time to reply. “Sorra fairer,” he observed; “silence gives consint.” In less than two minutes he stripped, put on one of the Squire's best shirts, and spread out his own dusky fragment in its place. “It's a good thing,” said Art, “to have a clear conscience; a fair exchange is no robbery.” Now, it so happened that the Squire himself, who was a humorist, and also a justice of the peace, saw Art putting his morality in practice at the hedge. He immediately walked out with an intention of playing off a trick upon the fool for his dishonesty; and he felt the greater inclination to do this in consequence of an opinion long current, that Art, though he had outwitted several, had never been outwitted himself. Art had been always a welcome guest in the Squire's kitchen, and never passed the “Big House,” as an Irish country gentleman's residence is termed, without calling. On this occasion, however, he was too cunning to go near it--a fact which the Squire observed. By taking a short cut across one of his own fields, he got before Art, and turning the angle of a hedge, met him trotting along at his usual pace. “Well, Art, where now?” “To the crass roads, your honor.” “Art, is not this a fine place of mine? Look at these groves, and the lawn, and the river there, and the mountains behind all. Is it not equal to Sir William E-----'s?” Sir William was Art's favorite patron. “Sir William, your honor, has all this at his place.” “But I think my views are finer.” “They're fine enough,” replied Art; “but where's the lake afore the door?” The Squire said no more about his prospects. “Art,” he continued, “would you carry a letter from me to M-----?” “I'll be wantin' somethin' to dhrink on the way,” said Art. “You shall get something to eat and drink before you go,” said the Squire, “and half-a-crown for your trouble.” “Augh,” exclaimed Art, “be dodda, sir, you're nosed like Sir William, and chinned like Captain Taylor.” This was always Art's compliment when pleased. The Squire brought him up to the house, ordered him refreshment, and while Art partook of it, wrote a _letter of mittimus_ to the county jailor, authorizing him to detain the bearer in prison until he should hear further from him.