Bob gave tongue: "The Devil's skewer to Mikey Brian! and bad luck to
the Currah thoro'bred cut! Not the eighth part of an inch of 'air there
is amongst the set of us. What will the master say? Never mind; we've
got the fi'pennies! Come to dinner!--by the Puck we are beauties!"

We reached the dining-room unperceived; but who can describe the agony
of my aunt Kate, when she clapped her eyes upon five such close-clipped
scarecrows. She vowed vengence of all sorts and descriptions against
the impudent, unnatural, shameful monster! Terms which Mikey Brian, in
the back-ground, appropriated to himself, and with the utmost
difficulty restrained his rising wrath from breaking out.

"What," continued aunt Kate, "what does he call this?"

"It's the thoro'bred Currah-cut, ma'am," said Bob, with one of his
peculiar glances at Mikey and the rest.

"And mighty cool wearing, I'll be bail," muttered Mikey.

"Does he call that hair-cutting?" screamed my aunt.

"That, and nothing but it," quietly retorted Bob, passing his hand over
his head; "you can't deny the cutting, ma'am."

"The young gentlemen look elegant," said Mikey.

"I'm told it's all the go, ma'am," said Bob.

"Wait!" said my aunt, with suppressed rage; "wait till I go to Kells."