“Wan year aftherward Flaherty begun makin’ up to Mrs. O’Grady; an’ ivry wan in th’ parish seen it, an’ was glad iv it, an’ said it was scandalous.  How it iver got out to O’Grady’s pew in th’ burryin’ ground, I’ll niver tell ye, an’ th’ Lord knows; but wan evenin’ th’ ghost iv O’Grady come back.  Flaherty was settin’ in th’ parlor, smokin’ a seegar, with O’Grady’s slippers on his feet, whin th’ spook come in in th’ mos’ natural way in the wurruld, kickin’ th’ dog.  ’What ar-re ye doin’ here, ye little farryer iv pants?’ he says.  Mrs. O’Grady was f’r faintin’; but O’Flaherty he says, says he:  ‘Be quite,’ he says, ‘I’ll dale with him.’  Thin to th’ ghost:  ‘Have ye paid th’ rint here, ye big ape?’ he says.  ‘What d’ye mane be comin’ back, whin th’ landlord ain’t heerd fr’m ye f’r a year?’ he says.  Well, O’Grady’s ghost was that surprised he cud hardly speak.  ’Ye ought to have betther manners thin insultin’ th’ dead,’ he says.  ’Ye ought to have betther manners thin to be lavin’ ye’er coffin at this hour iv th’ night, an’ breakin’ in on dacint people,’ says Flaherty.  ’What good does it do to have rayqueem masses f’r th’ raypose iv th’ like iv you,’ he says, ‘that doesn’t know his place?’ he says.  “I’m masther iv this house,’ says th’ ghost.  ‘Not on ye’er life,’ says Flaherty.  ’Get out iv here, or I’ll make th’ ghost iv a ghost out iv ye.  I can lick anny dead man that iver lived,’ he said.

“With that th’ ghost iv O’Grady made a pass at him, an’ they clinched an’ rowled on th’ flure.  Now a ghost is no aisy mark f’r anny man, an’ O’Grady’s ghost was as sthrong as a cow.  It had Flaherty down on th’ flure an’ was feedin’ him with a book they call th’ ’Christyan Martyrs,’ whin Mrs. O’Grady put a bottle in Flaherty’s hands.  ’What’s this?’ says Flaherty.  ‘Howly wather,’ says Mrs. O’Grady.  ’Sprinkle it on him,’ says Mrs. O’Grady.  ‘Woman,’ says th’ tailor between th’ chapter iv th’ book, ‘this is no time f’r miracles,’ he says.  An’ he give O’Grady’s ghost a treminjous wallop on th’ head.  Now, whether it was th’ wather or th’ wallop, I’ll not tell ye; but, annyhow, th’ ghost give wan yell an’ disappeared.  An’ th’ very next Sundah, whin Father Kelly wint into th’ pulpit at th’ gospel, he read th’ names iv Roger Kickham Flaherty an’ Mary Ann O’Grady.”

“Did the ghost ever come back?” asked Mr. McKenna.

“Niver,” said Mr. Dooley.  “Wanst was enough.  But, mind ye, I’d hate to have been wan iv th’ other ghosts th’ night O’Grady got home fr’m th’ visit to O’Flaherty’s.  There might be ghosts that cud stand him off with th’ gloves, but in a round an’ tumble fight he cud lick a St. Patrick’s Day procession iv thim.”

THE SOFT SPOT.

“Anny more cyclone news?” Mr. Dooley asked Mr. McKenna, as he came in with a copy of an extra paper in his hand.

“Nothing much,” Mr. McKenna responded.  “This paper says the angel of death has give up riding on the whirlwind.”