"
"Behave, Phelim--oh--oh--Phelim, now--there you've tuck it--och, the
curse o' the crows on you, see the way you have my hair down! There now,
you broke my comb, too. Troth, you're a wild slip, Phelim. I hope you
won't be goin' on this way wid the girls, when you get married."
"Is it me you coaxer? No, faith, I'll wear a pair of winkers, for fraid
o' lookin' at them at all! Oh be gorra, no, bally, I'll lave that to the
great people. Sure, they say, the divil a differ they make at all."
"Go off now, Phelim, till I get ready, an' set out to my father. But,
Phelim, never breathe a word about him bein' in goal. No one knows it
but ourselves--that is, none o' the neighbors."
"I'll sing dumb," said Phelim. "Well, _binaght lath, a rogarah!_* Tell
him the thruth--to be game, an' he'll find you an' me sweeled together
whin he comes out, plase Goodness."
* My blessing be with you, you rogue!
Phelim was but a few minutes gone, when the old military cap of Fool Art
projected from the little bed-room, which a wicker wall, plastered with
mud, divided from the other part of the cabin.
"Is he gone?" said Art.
"You may come out, Art," said she, "he's gone."
"Ha!" said Art, triumphantly, "I often tould him, when he vexed me an'
pelted me wid snow-balls, that I'd come along sides wid him yet. An'
it's not over aither.
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