Hello! there's the bell, boys, so mind what I tould yez; we'll give him
a farewell benefit, if it was only for the sake of poor _Drywig_. Ah,
poor _Drywig!_ how will he live widout him? Ochone, ochone! ha, ha, ha!"
Without at all suspecting the trap that had been set for him, Art
attended his business as usual, till towards evening, when Harte took an
opportunity, when he got him for a few minutes by himself, of speaking
to him apparently in a careless and indifferent way.
"Art, that's a nate patthern in your waistcoat; but any how, I dunna
how it is that you contrive to have every thing about you dacenter an'
jinteeler than another." This, by the way, was true, both of him and his
brother.
"Tut, it's but middlin'," said Art; "it's now but a has-been:--when it
was at itself it wasn't so bad."
"Begad, it was lovely wanst; now; how do you account, Art, for bein'
supairior to us in all in--in every thing, I may say; ay, begad, in
every thing, and in all things, for that's a point every one allows."
"Nonsense, Syl" (his name was Sylvester), "don't be comin' it soft over
me; how am I betther than any other?"
"Why, you're betther made, in the first place, than e'er a man among
us; in the next place, you're a betther workman;"--both these were
true--"an', in the third place, you're the best lookin' of the whole
pack; an' now deny these if you can:--eh, ha, ha, ha--my lad, I have
you!"
An involuntary smile might be observed on Art's face at the last
observation, which also was true.
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