“Well then, boys, for his sake—an' I know you'd do any day for his sake what you wouldn't, nor what you oughtn't, for mine—for his sake, I say, go off wid yez, and bring your liquor somewhere else, or sure wait till to-morrow evenin'.”
“Out of respect for Art Maguire we'll go; an' divil another boy in the province we'd pay that respect to; good-evenin', Syl!”
“Aisy, boys,” said Art, coming to the door, “don't let me frighten you—come in—I'd be very sorry to be the means of spoilin' sport, although I can't drink myself; that wouldn't be generous—come in.”
“Augh,” said Skinadre, “by the livin' it's in him, an' I always knew it was—the rale drop.”
“Boys,” said Harte, “go off wid yez out o' this, I say; divil a foot you'll come in.”
“Arra go to—Jimmaiky; who cares about you, Syl, when we have Art's liberty? Sure we didn't know the thing ourselves half an hour ago.”
“Come, Syl, man alive,” said Art, “let the poor fellows enjoy their liquor, an', as I can't join yez, I'll take my hat an' be off.”
“I knew it, an' bad luck to yez, how yez 'ud drive him away,” said Syl, quite angry.
“Faix, if we disturb you, Art, we're off—that 'ud be too bad; yes, Syl, you were right, it was very thoughtless of us: Art, we ax your pardon, sorra one of us meant you any offence in life—come, boys.”
Art's generosity was thus fairly challenged, and he was not to be outdone—