"Syl," he replied, "behave yourself; what are you at now? I know you."
"Know me!" exclaimed Syl; "why what do you know of me? Nothing that's
bad I hope, any way."
"None of your palaver, at all events," replied Art; "have you got any
tobaccy about you?"
"Sorra taste," replied Harte, "nor had since mornin'."
"Well, I have then," said Art, pulling out a piece, and throwing it to
him with the air of a superior; "warm your gums wid that, for altho' I
seldom take a blast myself, I don't forget them that do."
"Ah, begorra," said Harte, in an undertone that was designed to be
heard, "there's something in the ould blood still; thank you, Art, faix
it's yourself that hasn't your heart in a trifle, nor ever had. I bought
a waistcoat on Saturday last from Paddy M'Gartland, but I only tuck it
on the condition of your likin' it."
"Me! ha, ha, ha, well, sure enough, Syl, you're the quarest fellow
alive; why, man, isn't it yourself you have to plaise, not me."
"No matther for that, I'm not goin' to put my judgment in comparishment
wid yours, at any rate; an' Paddy M'Gartland himself said, 'Syl, my boy,
you know what you're about; if this patthern plaises Art Maguire, it'll
plaise anybody; see what it is,' says he, 'to have the fine high ould
blood in one's veins.' Begad he did; will you come up this evenin' about
seven o'clock, now, like a good fellow, an' pass your opinion for me?
Divil a dacent stitch I have, an' I want either it, or another, made up
before the ball night.
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