“It's many a good man's case,” observed Art in reply, “to take an oath against liquor, or a pledge aither, an' no disparagement to any man that does it.”
“He's a betther man that can keep himself sober widout it,” said Toal dryly.
“What do you mane by a betther man?” asked Art, somewhat significantly; “let us hear that first, Toal.”
“Don't be talking' about betther men here,” said Jerry Shannon; “I tell you, Toal, there's a man in this room, and when you get me a betther man in the town of Ballykeerin, I'll take a glass of punch wid you, or a pair o' them, in spite of all the pledges in Europe!”
“And who is that, Jerry,” said Toal.
“There he sits,” replied Jerry, putting his extended palm upon Art's shoulder and clapping it.
“May the divil fly away wid you,” replied Toal; “did you think me a manus, that I'd go to put Art Maguire wid any man that I know? Art Maguire indeed! Now, Jerry, my throoper, do you think I'm come to this time o' day, not to know that there's no man in Ballykeerin, or the parish it stands in—an' that's a bigger word—that could be called a betther man that Art Maguire?”
“Come, boys,” said Art, “none of your nonsense. Sich as I am, be the same good or bad, I'll stand the next trate, an' devilish fine strong cordial it is.”
“Why, then, I don't think myself it's so good,” replied young Scaddhan; “troth it's waiker than we usually have it; an' the taste somehow isn't exactly to my plaisin'.”
“Very well,” said Art; “if you have any that 'ill plaise yourself betther, get it; but in the mane time bring us a round o' this, an' we'll be satisfied.”