Phelim himself, and the father, on hearing of the occurrence after mass, were as merry as any other two in the parish. At first the father was disposed to lose his temper; but on Phelim telling him he would bear no “gosther” on the subject, he thought proper to take it in good humor. About this time they had not more than a week's provision in the house, and only three shillings of capital. The joke of the three calls was too good a one to pass off as an ordinary affair; they had three shillings, and although it was their last, neither of them could permit the matter to escape as a dry joke. They accordingly repaired to the little public-house of the village, where they laughed at the world, got drunk, hugged each other, despised all mankind, and staggered home, Fagged and merry, poor and hearty, their arms about each other's necks, perfect models of filial duty and paternal affection.
The reader is aware that the history of Phelim's abrupt engagement with the housekeeper, was conveyed by Fool Art to Sally Flattery. Her thievish character rendered marriage as hopeless to her as length of days did to Bridget Doran. No one knew the plan she had laid for Phelim, but this fool, and, in order to secure his silence, she had promised him a shirt on the Monday after the first call. Now Art, as was evident by his endless habit of shrugging, felt the necessity of a shirt very strongly.
About ton o'clock on Monday he presented himself to Sally, and claimed his recompense.
“Art,” said Sally, “the shirt I intended for you is upon Squire Nugent's hedge beside their garden. You know the family's goin' up to Dublin on Thursday, Art, an' they're gettin' their washin' done in time to be off. Go down, but don't let any one see you; take the third shirt on the row, an' bring it up to me till I smooth it for you.”
Art sallied down to the hedge on which the linen had been put out to dry, and having reconnoitered the premises, shrugged himself, and cast a longing eye on the third shirt. With that knavish penetration, however, peculiar to such persons, he began to reflect that Sally might have some other object in view besides his accommodation. He determined, therefore, to proceed upon new principles—sufficiently safe, he thought, to protect him from the consequences of theft. “Good-morrow, Bush,” said Art, addressing that on which the third shirt was spread. “Isn't it a burnin' shame an' a sin for you,” he continued, “to have sich a line white shirt an you, an' me widout a stitch to my back. Will you swap?”
Having waited until the bush had due time to reply.
“Sorra fairer,” he observed; “silence gives consint.”
In less than two minutes he stripped, put on one of the Squire's best shirts, and spread out his own dusky fragment in its place.
“It's a good thing,” said Art, “to have a clear conscience; a fair exchange is no robbery.”
Now, it so happened that the Squire himself, who was a humorist, and also a justice of the peace, saw Art putting his morality in practice at the hedge. He immediately walked out with an intention of playing off a trick upon the fool for his dishonesty; and he felt the greater inclination to do this in consequence of an opinion long current, that Art, though he had outwitted several, had never been outwitted himself.