"The day beyond yesterday, sir; yarra musha, sure 'twas yourself, sir, that shet me the first sum."

"Masther, sir, Thady Bradly stole my cutter--that's my cutter, Thady Bradly."

"No it's not" (in a low voice).

"Sir, that's my cutter--an' there's three nicks in id."

"Thady, is that his cutter?"

"There's your cutter for you. Sir, I found it on the flure and didn't know who own'd it."

"You know'd very well who own'd it; didn't d.i.c.k Martin see you liftin'

it off o' my slate, when I was out?"

"Well, if d.i.c.k Martin saw him, it's enough: an' 'tis d.i.c.k that's the tindher-hearted boy, an' would knock, you down wid a lump of a stone, if he saw you murdherin' but a fly!"

"We'll, Thady--throth Thady, I fear you'll undherstand subtraction better nor your teacher: I doubt you'll apply it to 'Practice' all your life, _ma bouchal_, and that you'll be apt to find it 'the Rule of False'* at last. Well, Thady, from one thousand pounds, no shillings, and no pince, how will you subtract one pound? Put it down on your slate--this way,

The name of a 'Rule' in Gough's Arithmetic.

1000 00 00

1 00 00"

"I don't know how to shet about it, masther."

"You don't, an' how dare you tell me so you _shingaun_ you--you Cornelius Agrippa you--go to your sate and study it, or I'll--ha! be off, you."--

"Pierce Butler, come up wid your multiplication. Pierce, multiply four hundred by two--put it down--that's it,

400

By 2"

"Twice nought is one." (Whack, whack.)

"Take that as an ill.u.s.tration--is that one?"

"Faith, masther, that's two, any how: but, sir, is not wanst nought nothin'; now masher, sure there can't be less than nothin'."

"Very good, sir."

"If wanst nought be nothin', then twice nought must be somethin', for it's double what wanst nought is--see how I'm sthruck for nothin', an'

me knows it--hoo! hoo! hoo!

"Get out, you Esculapian; but I'll give you _somethin_', by-and-by, just to make you remimber that you know _nothin_'--off wid you to your sate, you spalpeen you--to tell me that there can't be less than nothin' when it's well known that sporting Squaire O'Canter's worth a thousand pounds less than nothin'."

"Paddy Doran, come up to your 'Intherest.' Well Paddy, what's the intherest of a hundred pound, at five per cent? Boys, have manners you thieves you."

"Do you mane, masther, per cent, per annum?"

"To be sure I do--how do you state it?"

"I'll say, as a hundher pound is to one year, so is five per cent, per annum."

"Hum--why what's the number of the sum Paddy?"

"'Tis No. 84, sir. (The master steals a glance at the Key to Gough.)

"I only want to look at it in the Gough, you see, Paddy,--an' how dare you give me such an answer, you big-headed dunce, you--go off an' study it, you rascally Lilliputian--off wid you, and don't let me see your ugly mug till you know it."

"Now, gintlemen, for the Cla.s.sics; and first for the Latinaarians--Larry Ca.s.sidy, come up wid your Aisop. Larry you're a year at Latin, an' I don't think you know Latin for frize, what your own coat is made of, Larry. But, in the first place, Larry, do you know what a man that taiches Cla.s.sics is called?"

"A schoolmasther, sir." (Whack, whack, whack.).

"Take that for your ignorance--and that to the back of it--ha; that'll taiche you--to call a man that taiches Cla.s.sics a schoolmaster, indeed!

'Tis a Profissor of Humanity itself, he is--(whack, whack, whack,)--ha!

you ringleader, you; you're as bad as d.i.c.k M'Growler, that no masther in the county could get any good of, in regard that he put the whole school together by the ears, wherever he'd be, though the spalpeen wouldn't stand fight himself. Hard fortune to you! to go to put such an affront upon me, an' me a Profissor of Humanity. What's Latin for pantaloons?"

"Fern--fern--femi--"

"No, it's not, sir."

"Femora--"

"Can you do it?"

"Don't strike me, sir, don't strike me, sir, an' I will."

"I say, can you do it?"

"Femorali,"--(whack, whack, whack,)--

"Ah, sir! ah, sir! 'tis fermorali--ah, sir! 'tis fermorali--ah, sir!"--

"This thratement to a Profissor of Humanity--(drives him head over heels to his seat).--Now, sir, maybe you'll have Latin for throwsers agin, or by my sowl, if you don't, you must peel, and I'll tache you what a Profissor of Humanity is!

"Dan Roe, you little starved-looking spalpeen, will you come up to your Elocution?--and a purty figure you cut at it, wid a voice like a penny thrumpet, Dan! Well, what speech have you got now, Dan, _ma bouchal_. Is it, 'Romans, counthrymin, and lovers?'"

"No, shir; yarrah, didn't I spake that speech before?"

"No, you didn't, you fairy. Ah, Dan, little as you are, you take credit for more than ever you spoke, Dan, agrah; but, faith, the same thrick will come agin you some time or other, avick! Go and get that speech betther; I see by your face, you haven't it; off wid you, and get a patch upon your breeches, your little knees are through them, though 'tisn't by prayin' you've wore them, any how, you little hop-o'-my-thumb you, wid a voice like a rat in a thrap; off wid you, man alive!"

Sometimes the neighboring gentry used to call into Mat's establishment, moved probably by a curiosity excited by his character, and the general conduct of the school. On one occasion Squire Johnston and an English gentleman paid him rather an unexpected visit. Mat had that morning got a new scholar, the son of a dancing tailor in the neighborhood; and as it was reported that the son was nearly equal to the father in that accomplishment, Mat insisted on having a specimen of his skill. He was the more anxious on this point as it would contribute to the amus.e.m.e.nt of a travelling schoolmaster, who had paid him rather a hostile visit, which Mat, who dreaded a literary challenge, feared might occasion him some trouble.

"Come up here, you little sartor, till we get a dacent view of you.

You're a son of Ned Malone's--aren't you?"