“Nonsense, Syl” (his name was Sylvester), “don't be comin' it soft over me; how am I betther than any other?”
“Why, you're betther made, in the first place, than e'er a man among us; in the next place, you're a betther workman;”—both these were true—“an', in the third place, you're the best lookin' of the whole pack; an' now deny these if you can:—eh, ha, ha, ha—my lad, I have you!”
An involuntary smile might be observed on Art's face at the last observation, which also was true.
“Syl,” he replied, “behave yourself; what are you at now? I know you.”
“Know me!” exclaimed Syl; “why what do you know of me? Nothing that's bad I hope, any way.”
“None of your palaver, at all events,” replied Art; “have you got any tobaccy about you?”
“Sorra taste,” replied Harte, “nor had since mornin'.”
“Well, I have then,” said Art, pulling out a piece, and throwing it to him with the air of a superior; “warm your gums wid that, for altho' I seldom take a blast myself, I don't forget them that do.”
“Ah, begorra,” said Harte, in an undertone that was designed to be heard, “there's something in the ould blood still; thank you, Art, faix it's yourself that hasn't your heart in a trifle, nor ever had. I bought a waistcoat on Saturday last from Paddy M'Gartland, but I only tuck it on the condition of your likin' it.”
“Me! ha, ha, ha, well, sure enough, Syl, you're the quarest fellow alive; why, man, isn't it yourself you have to plaise, not me.”