“And let the Cantabrigian then take up mine,” said Mat: “and if he can expound it, I'll give him a dozen more to bring home in his pocket, for the Cambridge folk to crack after their dinner, along wid their nuts.” “Can you do the 'Snail?'” inquired the stranger.. “Or 'A and B on opposite sides of a wood,' without the Key?” said Mat. “Maybe,” said the stranger, who threw off the frize jock, and exhibited a muscular frame of great power, cased in an old black coat--“maybe the gintleman would like to get a small taste of the '_Scuffle_'” “Not at all,” replied the Englishman; “I have not the least curiosity for it--I assure you I have not. What the deuce do they mean, Johnston? I hope you have influence over them.” “Hand me down that cudgel, Jack Brady, till I show the gintleman the 'Snail' and the 'Maypole,'” said Mat. “Never mind, my lad; never mind, Mr ------a------Kevanagh. I give up the contest; I resign you the palm, gentlemen. The hedge school has beaten Cambridge hollow.” “One poser more before you go, sir,” said Mat--“Can you give me Latin for a _game-egg_ in two words?” “Eh, a game egg? No, by my honor, I cannot--gentlemen, I yield.” “Ay, I thought so,” replied Mat; “and, faith, I believe the divil a much of the game bird about you--you bring it home to Cambridge, anyhow, and let them chew their cuds upon it, you persave; and, by the sowl of Newton, it will puzzle the whole establishment, or my name's not Kavanagh.” “It will, I am convinced,” replied the gentleman, eyeing the herculean frame of the strange teacher and the substantial cudgel in Mat's hand; “it will, undoubtedly. But who is this most miserable naked lad here, Mr. Kevanagh?” “Why, sir,” replied Mat, with his broad Milesian face, expanded by a forthcoming joke, “he is, sir, in a sartin and especial particularity, a namesake of your own.” “How is that, Mr. Kevanagh?” “My name's not Kevanagh,” replied Mat, “but Kavanagh; the Irish A for ever!” “Well, but how is the lad a namesake of mine?” said the Englishman. “Bekase, you see, he's a, poor scholar, sir,” replied Mat: “an' I hope your honor will pardon me for the facetiousness-- 'Quid vetat ridentem dicere verum!' as Horace says to Maecenas, in the first of the Sathirs.” “There, Mr. Kavanagh, is the price of a suit of clothes for him.” “Michael, will you rise up, sir, and make the gintleman a bow? he has given you the price of a shoot of clothes, ma bouchal.” Michael came up with a very tattered coat hanging about him; and, catching his forelock, bobbed down his head after the usual manner, saying--“Musha yarrah, long life to your honor every day you rise, an' the Lord grant your sowl a short stay in purgatory, wishin' ye, at the same time, a happy death aftherwards!” The gentleman could not stand this, but laughed so heartily that the argument was fairly knocked up. It appeared, however, that Squire Johnston did not visit Mat's school from mere curiosity.