be in the dark upon a subject so generally understood.

"Because," said Nick, "the Irish are only fit to do the fighting; and
that's always done, you know, by the rank and file."

This reply, although not over satisfactory to the interrogator,
seemed to afford infinite amusement to Big Tom, who, with a perfect
sledge hammer of a laugh, exclaimed when Barry had finished:

"Well done Nick, and the divil a betther could it be said if I said
it myself."

This unusual and lively demonstration on the part of O'Brien, seemed
to attract the notice of Greaves, who, with the utmost good humor,
observed, while glancing in the direction of the bar:

"From Ireland, too, I'll bet my head!"

"Seven miles out of it," returned Tom with a slight twinkle of his
eye, "and, of coorse, a gintleman so larned as you will be able to
tell where that is."

"Well, for the life of me," observed Greaves, "I cannot divine what
you are at, with your 'seven miles out,' but as I'm an Englishman, I
suppose that accounts for it."

"He means by what he has said," interrupted Barry, "that he is from
Connaught, which, for some reason or other, is regarded as seven
miles out of Ireland."