“Ay,” said Tom Whiskey, “till we dhrink success to teetotalism, ha, ha, ha!”
“Suppose you do him in the cordial,” said Shannon.
“Never mind,” replied Toal; “I'll first soften him a little on the cordial, and then make him tip the punch openly and before faces, like a man.”
“Troth, it's a sin,” observed Moonoy, who began to disrelish the project; “if it was only on account of his wife an' childre.”
Toal twisted his misshapen mouth into still greater deformity at this observation—
“Well,” said he, “no matter, it'll only be a good joke; Art is a dacent fellow, and afther this night we won't repate it. Maybe,” he continued “I may find it necessary to vex him, an' if I do, remember you won't let him get at me, or my bread's baked.”
This they all promised, and the words were scarcely concluded, when Art entered and joined them. As a great portion of their conversation did not bear upon the subject matter of this narrative, it is therefore unnecessary to record it. After about two hours, during which Art had unconsciously drunk at least three glasses of whiskey, disguised in cordial, the topic artfully introduced by Toal was the Temperance Movement.
“As for my part,” said he, “I'm half ashamed that I ever joined it. As I was never drunk, where was the use of it? Besides, it's an unmanly thing for any one to have it to say that he's not able to keep himself sober, barrin' he takes an oath, or the pledge.”
“And why did you take it then?” said Art.
“Bekaise I was a fool,” replied Toal; “devil a thing else.”