clatter he made upon the pavement,--for it was all stone! And how
the drops of perspiration stood upon my brow as I listened to him!

And then there was a pause, for the man had gone into the dining-
room. I could see now that Mr. O'Conor was becoming very angry, and
Jack the eldest son--oh, how often he and I have laughed over all
this since--left the drawing-room for the second time. Immediately
afterwards Larry's footsteps were again heard, hurrying across the
hall, and then there was a great slither, and an exclamation, and the
noise of a fall--and I could plainly hear poor Larry's head strike
against the stone floor.

"Ochone, ochone!" he cried at the top of his voice--"I'm murthered
with 'em now intirely; and d-- 'em for boots--St. Peter be good to
me."

There was a general rush into the hall, and I was carried with the
stream. The poor fellow who had broken his head would be sure to
tell how I had robbed him of his shoes. The coachman was already
helping him up, and Peter good-naturedly lent a hand.

"What on earth is the matter?" said Mr. O'Conor.

"He must be tipsy," whispered Miss O'Conor, the maiden sister.

"I aint tipsy at all thin," said Larry, getting up and rubbing the
back of his head, and sundry other parts of his body. "Tipsy
indeed!" And then he added when he was quite upright, "The dinner is
sarved--at last."