“Very well,” said Frank, “of coorse.”
“I'll not stop long.”
“As long or short as you like, Art, my boy.”
“I hope, Frank, you don't imagine that there's any danger of drink?”
“Who, me—why should I, afther what passed? Didn't you give me your word, and isn't your name Maguire? Not I.”
Art had seen, and approved of the pattern, and was chatting with Syl, when a knock came to the room door in which they sat; Syl rose, and opening the door, immediately closed it after him, and began in a low voice to remonstrate with some persons outside. At length Art could hear the subject of debate pretty well—
“Sorra foot yez will put inside the room this evenin', above all evenin's in the year.”
“Why, sure we know he won't drink. I wish to goodness we knew he had been here; we wouldn't ax him to drink, bekase we know he wouldn't.
“No matther for that, sorrow foot yez'll put acrass the thrashel this evenin'; now, I'll toll you what, Skinadre, I wouldn't this blessed minute, for all I've earned these six months, that ye came this evenin';—I have my raisons for it; Art Maguire is a boy that we have no right to compare ourselves wid—you all know that.”
“We all know it, and there's nobody denyin' it; we haven't the blood in our veins that he has, an' blood will show itself anywhere.”