"Why," said O'Sullivan, "you see he's not altogether complete in the demonstheration o' the mashine; it is not by the ringin' o' the bell it is done, but—"
"But what?" broke in O'Reirdon impatiently. "Do you mane for to say there is a bell in it at all at all?"
"Yis, I do," said O'Sullivan.
"I towld you so," said the promulgator of the story.
"Aye," said O'Sullivan, "but it is not by the ringin' iv the bell it is done."
"Well, how is it done then?" said the other, with a half-offended, half-supercilious air.
"It is done," said O'Sullivan, as he returned the look with interest,—"it is done entirely by jommethry."
"Oh! I understan' it now," said O'Reirdon, with an inimitable affectation of comprehension in the Oh!—"but to talk of the ringin' iv a bell doin' the like is beyant the beyants intirely, barrin', as I said before, it was a blissed bell, glory be to God!"
"And so you tell me, sir, it is jommethry," said the twice-discomfited man of science.
"Yis, sir," said O'Sullivan with an air of triumph, which rose in proportion as he carried the listeners along with him,—"jommethry."