“‘Arrah, sweet bad-luck to you, you lazy vagabond you,’ says Larry, ‘what kept you away till this hour?’

“‘The devil send you news, you nager you,’ says Sally, ’what kept me—­could I make the people churn sooner than they wished or were ready?’

“’Ho, by my song, I’ll flake you as soon as the dacent young man leaves the house,’ says Larry to her, aside.

“‘You’ll flake me, is it?’ says Sally, speaking out loud—­’in troth, that’s no new thing for you to do, any how.’

“‘Spake asy, you had betther.’

“’No, in troth, won’t I spake asy; I’ve spoken asy too long, Larry, but the devil a taste of me will bear what I’ve suffered from you any longer, you mane-spirited blackguard you; for he is nothing else that would rise his hand to a woman, especially to one in my condition, and she put her gown tail to her eyes.  When she came in, Art turned his back to her, for fraid she’d see the state the gorsoon was in—­but now she noticed it—­

“‘Oh, murdher, murdher,’ says she, clapping her hands, and running over to him, ’what has happened my child? oh! murdher, murdher, this is your work, murdherer!’ says she to Larry.  ’Oh, you villain, are you bent on murdhering all of us—­are you bent on destroying us out o’ the face!  Oh, wurrah sthrew! wurrah sthrew! what’ll become of us!  Dick, agra,’ says she, crying, ’Dick, acushla machree, don’t you hear, me spaiking to you!—­don’t you hear your poor broken-hearted mother spaking to you?  Oh! wurrah! wurrah! amn’t I the heart-brokenest crathur that’s alive this day, to see the likes of such doings! but I knew it would come to this!  My sowl to glory, but my child’s murdhered by that man standing there!—­by his own father—­his own father!  Which of us will you murther next, you villain!’

“‘For heaven’s sake, Sally,’ says Art, ’don’t exaggerate him more nor he is—­the boy is only stunned—­see, he’s coming to:  Dick, ma bouchal, rouse yourself, that’s a man:  hut! he’s well enough—­that’s it, alannah; here, take a slug out of this bottle, and it’ll set all right—­or stop, have you a glass within, Sally?’ ’Och, inusha, not a glass is under the roof wid me,’ says Sally; ’the last we had was broke the night Barney was christened, and we hadn’t one since—­but I’ll get you an egg-shell.’* ‘It’ll do as well as the best,’ says Art.  And to make a long story short, they sat down, and drank the bottle of whiskey among them.  Larry and Sally made it up, and were as great friends as ever; and Dick was made drunk for the bating he got from his father.

* The ready wit of the Irish is astonishing.  It often happens that they have whiskey when neither glasses nor cups are at hand; in which case they are never at a loss.  I have seen them use not only egg-shells, but pistol barrels, tobacco boxes, and scooped potatoes, in extreme cases.

“What Art wanted was to buy some oats that Larry had to sell, to run in a private Still, up in the