Mr. McKenna stopped at the door only long enough to shake his fist at the proprietor, who responded with a grin of pure contentment.

WHEN THE TRUST IS AT WORK.

“Which d’ye think makes th’ best fun’ral turnout, th’ A-ho-aitches or th’ Saint Vincent de Pauls, Jawn?” asked Mr. Dooley.

“I don’t know,” said Mr. McKenna.  “Are you thinking of leaving us?”

“Faith, I am not,” said Mr. Dooley.  “Since th’ warm weather’s come an’ th’ wind’s in th’ south, so that I can tell at night that A-armoor an’ me ol’ frind, Jawn Brinnock, are attindin’ to business, I have a grip on life like th’ wan ye have on th’ shank iv that shell iv malt.  Whether ‘tis these soft days, with th’ childher beginnin’ to play barefutted in th’ sthreet an’ th’ good women out to palaver over th’ fence without their shawls, or whether ‘tis th’ wan wurrud Easter Sundah that comes on me, an’ jolts me up with th’ thoughts iv th’ la-ads goin’ to mass an’ th’ blackthorn turnin’ green beyant, I dinnaw.  But annyhow I’m as gay as a babby an’ as fresh as a lark.  I am so.

“I was on’y thinkin’.  Ol’ Gran’pah Grogan died las’ Mondah,—­as good a man as e’er counted his beads or passed th’ plate.  A thrue man.  Choosdah a Connock man up back iv th’ dumps laid down th’ shovel.  Misther Grogan had a grand notice in th’ pa-apers:  ’Grogan, at his late risidence, 279 A-archoor Avnoo, Timothy Alexander, beloved husband iv th’ late Mary Grogan, father iv Maurice, Michael, Timothy, Edward, James, Peter, Paul, an’ Officer Andrew Grogan, iv Cologne Sthreet station, an’ iv Mrs. Willum Sarsfield Cassidy, nee Grogan’ (which manes that was her name befure she marrid Cassidy, who wurruks down be Haley’s packin’-house).  ’Fun’ral be carriages fr’m his late risidence to Calv’ry cimithry.  Virginia City, Nivada; St. Joseph, Mitchigan; an’ Clonmel Tipp’rary pa-apers please copy.’

“I didn’t see e’er a nee about th’ fam’ly iv th’ little man back iv th’ dumps, though maybe he had wan to set aroun’ th’ fire in th’ dark an’ start at th’ tap iv a heel on th’ dure-step.  Mebbe he had a fam’ly, poor things.  A fun’ral is great la-arks f’r th’ neighbors, an’ ‘tis not so bad f’r th’ corpse.  But in these times, Jawn dear, a-ho th’ gray hearts left behind an’ th’ hungry mouths to feed.  They done th’ best they cud f’r th’ Connock man back iv th’ dumps,—­give him all th’ honors, th’ A-ho-aitches ma-archin’ behind th’ hearse an’ th’ band playin’ th’ Dead March, ’Twas almost as good a turnout as Grogan had, though th’ Saint Vincents had betther hats an’ looked more like their fam’lies kept a cow.

“But they was two hacks back iv th’ pall-bearers.  I wondhered what was passin’ behind th’ faces I seen again their windys.  ’Twas well f’r himself, too.  Little odds to him, afther th’ last screw was twisted be Gavin’s ol’ yellow hands, whether beef was wan cint or a hundherd dollars th’ pound.  But there’s comin’ home as well as goin’ out.  There’s more to a fun’ral thin th’ lucks parpitua, an’ th’ clod iv sullen earth on th’ top iv th’ crate.  Sare a pax vobiscum is there f’r thim that’s huddled in th’ ol’ hack, sthragglin’ home in th’ dust to th’ empty panthry an’ th’ fireless grate.