“‘Gintlemen,’ he says, ‘ye must excuse me,’ he says, ’in such matthers.’  ‘D’ye mane to say,’ says Cassidy, th’ plumber, ’that ye won’t do annything f’r my son?’ ‘Do annything,’ says Flannagan. (I’ll say this f’r him:  a more darin’ man niver drew breath; an’, whin his time come to go sthandin’ off th’ mob an’ defindin’ his sthone quarry in th’ rites iv sivinty-sivin, he faced death without a wink.) ‘Do?’ he says, risin’ an’ sthandin’ within a fut iv Cassidy’s big cane.  ‘Do?’ he says.  ‘Why,’ he says, ‘yes,’ he says; ’I’ve subscribed wan thousand dollars,’ he says, ‘to th’ citizen’s comity,’ he says, ’f’r to prosecute him; an’,’ he says, ‘gintlemen,’ he says, ‘there’s th’ dure.’

“I seen Cassidy that night, an’ he was as white as a ghost.  ’What ails ye?’ says I.  ‘Have ye seen th’ divvle?’ ‘Yes,’ he says, bendin’ his head over th’ bar, an’ lookin’ sivinty years instead iv forty-five.”

A WINTER NIGHT.

Any of the Archey Road cars that got out of the barns at all were pulled by teams of four horses, and the snow hung over the shoulders of the drivers’ big bearskin coats like the eaves of an old-fashioned house on the blizzard night.  There was hardly a soul in the road from the red bridge, west, when Mr. McKenna got laboriously off the platform of his car and made for the sign of somebody’s celebrated Milwaukee beer over Mr. Dooley’s tavern.  Mr. Dooley, being a man of sentiment, arranges his drinks to conform with the weather.  Now anybody who knows anything at all knows that a drop of “J.J.” and a whisper (subdued) of hot water and a lump of sugar and lemon peel (if you care for lemon peel) and nutmeg (if you are a “jood “) is a drink calculated to tune a man’s heart to the song of the wind slapping a beer-sign upside down and the snow drifting in under the door.  Mr. Dooley was drinking this mixture behind his big stove when Mr. McKenna came in.

“Bad night, Jawn,” said Mr. Dooley.

“It is that,” said Mr. McKenna.

“Blowin’ an’ storming’, yes,” said Mr. Dooley.  “There hasn’ been a can in tonight but wan, an’ that was a pop bottle.  Is the snow-ploughs out, I dinnaw?”

“They are,” said Mr. McKenna.

“I suppose Doherty is dhrivin’,” said Mr. Dooley.  “He’s a good dhriver.  They do say he do be wan iv the best dhrivers on th’ road.  I’ve heerd that th’ prisident is dead gawn on him.  He’s me cousin.  Ye can’t tell much about what a man ‘ll be fr’m what th’ kid is.  That there Doherty was th’ worst omadhon iv a boy that iver I knowed.  He niver cud larn his a-ah-bee, abs.  But see what he made iv himsilf!  Th’ best dhriver on th’ road; an’, by dad, ’tis not twinty to wan he won’t be stharter befure he dies.  ‘Tis in th’ fam’ly to make their names.  There niver was anny fam’ly in th’ ol’ counthry that turned out more priests than th’ Dooleys.  By gar, I believe we hol’ th’ champeenship iv th’ wurruld.  At M’nooth th’ profissor