“Never mind, my lad; never mind, Mr ———a———Kevanagh. I give up the contest; I resign you the palm, gentlemen. The hedge school has beaten Cambridge hollow.”
“One poser more before you go, sir,” said Mat—“Can you give me Latin for a game-egg in two words?”
“Eh, a game egg? No, by my honor, I cannot—gentlemen, I yield.”
“Ay, I thought so,” replied Mat; “and, faith, I believe the divil a much of the game bird about you—you bring it home to Cambridge, anyhow, and let them chew their cuds upon it, you persave; and, by the sowl of Newton, it will puzzle the whole establishment, or my name's not Kavanagh.”
“It will, I am convinced,” replied the gentleman, eyeing the herculean frame of the strange teacher and the substantial cudgel in Mat's hand; “it will, undoubtedly. But who is this most miserable naked lad here, Mr. Kevanagh?”
“Why, sir,” replied Mat, with his broad Milesian face, expanded by a forthcoming joke, “he is, sir, in a sartin and especial particularity, a namesake of your own.”
“How is that, Mr. Kevanagh?”
“My name's not Kevanagh,” replied Mat, “but Kavanagh; the Irish A for ever!”
“Well, but how is the lad a namesake of mine?” said the Englishman.
“Bekase, you see, he's a, poor scholar, sir,” replied Mat: “an' I hope your honor will pardon me for the facetiousness—