"Indeed, boys, I'm entirely obliged to you, and I don't think we can fail of success. It shall not be my fault if we do, and I'm certain it won't be yours. But I'm sorry—"
"Bidh a hurst, Emon; don't say wan word, or I'll choke you. But thry them on."
Emon's coat was forthwith slipped off his back and thrown upon the end of a turf-stack hard by, and Phil M'Dermott drew the sleeves upon his arms, and tied them artistically over his shoulders.
"Dam' the wan, Emon, but they were med for you!" said Phil, smoothing them down toward the wrists.
"Divil a word of lie in that, any way, Phil," said Solon. "Tell us something we don't know."
"Well, I may tell them that you have too much wit in your head to have any room for sense," replied M'Dermott, seemingly a little annoyed at the remark.
Solon grinned and drew in his horns.
"They are, indeed, the very thing," said Emon, turning his head from one to the other and admiring them. He could have wished, however, that it had been a Rathcash girl who had made them instead of Peggy M'Dermott. "But I cannot have everything my own way," sighed he to himself.
M'Dermott then quietly removed Emon's hat with one hand, while with the other he slily placed die silk cap jauntily upon his head. There was a general murmur of approbation at the effect, in which Emon himself could not choose but join. He felt that he was looking the thing.
After a sufficient time had been allowed for the admiration and verdict of the committee as to their fit and appearance, Phil M'Dermott took them [{519}] off again, and, folding them up carefully in the paper, handed it to Emon, wishing him on his own part, and that of the whole parish, health to wear and win in them on Patrick's Day— "Every man of as will have our own colors ready the day before," he added.