"Well, Andy! what is it?" said Dick.
"I've heerd," said he, "that yer 'an'rs isn't goin' in the mornin' to Shleenanaher, and I thought that yez couldn't do betther nor dhrive over to Knocknacar to-morra an' spind the day there."
"And why Knocknacar?" said I.
Andy twirled his cap between his hands in a sheepish way. I felt that he was acting a part, but could not see any want of reality. With a little hesitation he said:—
"I've gother from what yer 'an'rs wor savin' on the car this mornin', that yez is both intherested in bogs—an' there's the beautifulest bit iv bog in all the counthry there beyant. An', moreover, it's a lovely shpot intirely. If you gintlemin have nothin' betther to do, ye'd dhrive over there—if ye'd take me advice."
"What kind of bog is it, Andy?" said Dick. "Is there anythin' peculiar about it. Does it shift?"
Andy grinned a most unaccountable grin:—
"Begor, it does, surr!" he answered quickly. "Sure all bogs does shift!" And he grinned again.
"Andy," said Dick, laughing, "you have some joke in your mind. What is it?"
"Oh, sorra wan, surr—ask the masther there."
As it did not need a surgical operation to get the joke intended into the head of a man—of whatever nationality—who understood Andy's allusion, and as I did not want to explain it, I replied:—
"Oh, don't ask me, Andy; I'm no authority on the
