“Hot,” said Mr. McKenna.

“Warrum,” said Mr. Dooley.

“I think this is the hottest September that ever was,” said Mr. McKenna.

“So ye say,” said Mr. Dooley.  “An’ that’s because ye’re a young man, a kid.  If ye was my age, ye’d know betther.  How d’ye do, Mrs. Murphy?  Go in, an’ fill it ye’ersilf.  Ye’ll find th’ funnel undher th’ see-gar case.—­Ye’d know betther thin that.  Th’ Siptimber iv th’ year eighteen sixty-eight was so much hotter thin this that, if ye wint fr’m wan to th’ other, ye’d take noomoney iv th’ lungs,—­ye wud so.  ’Twas a remarkable summer, takin’ it all in all.  On th’ Foorth iv July they was a fut iv ice in Haley’s slough, an’ I was near flooded out be th’ wather pipe bustin’.  A man be th’ name iv Maloney froze his hand settin’ off a Roman candle near Main Sthreet, an’—­Tin cints, please, ma’am.  Thank ye kindly.  How’s th’ good man?—­As I said, it was a remarkable summer.  It rained all August, an’ th’ boys wint about on rafts; an’ a sthreet-car got lost fr’m th’ road, an’ I dhrove into th’ canal, an’ all on boord—­’Avnin’, Mike.  Ah-ha, ’twas a great fight.  An’ Buck got his eye, did he?  A good man.

“Well, Jawn, along come Siptimber.  It begun fairly warrum, wan hundherd or so in th’ shade; but no wan minded that.  Thin it got hotter an’ hotter, an’ people begun to complain a little.  They was sthrong in thim days,—­not like th’ joods they raise now,—­an’ a little heat more or less didn’t kill thim.  But afther a while it was more thin most iv thim wanted.  The sthreet-car thracks got so soft they spread all over th’ sthreet, an’ th’ river run dhry.  Afther boilin’ f’r five days like a—­How are ye, Dempsey?  Ye don’t tell me?  Now th’ likes iv him runnin’ f’r aldherman!  I’d as lave vote f’r th’ tillygraph pole.  Well, be good to ye’ersilf.  Folks all well?  Thanks be.—­They shut off th’ furnaces out at th’ mills, an’ melted th’ iron be puttin’ it out in th’ sun.  Th’ puddlers wurruked in iron cases, an’ was kept alive be men playin’ a hose on thim fr’m th’ packin’ house refrigerator.  Wan iv thim poked his head out to light his pipe, an’ he was—­Well, well, Timothy, ye are quite a sthranger.  Ah, dear oh me, that’s too ba-ad, too ba-ad.  I’ll tell ye what ye do.  Ye rub th’ hand in half iv a potato, an’ say tin pather an’ avy’s over it ivry day f’r tin days.  ‘Tis a sure cure.  I had wan wanst.  Th’ kids are thrivin’, I dinnaw?  That’s good.  Betther to hear thim yellin’ in th’ sthreet thin th’ sound iv th’ docthor’s gig at th’ dure.

“Well, Jawn, things wint fr’m bad to worse.  All th’ beer in th’ house was mulled; an’ Mrs. Dinny Hogan—­her that was Odelia O’Brien—­burned her face atin’ ice-crame down be th’ Italyan man’s place, on Halsthed Sthreet.  ‘Twas no sthrange sight to see an ice-wagon goin’ along th’ sthreet on fire—­McCarthy!  McCarthy! come over here!  Sure, ye’re gettin’ proud, passin’ by ye’er ol’ frinds.  How’s thricks in th’ Ninth?  D’ye think he will?  Well, I’ve heerd that, too; but they was a man in here to-day that says the Boohemians is out f’r him with axes.  Good-night.  Don’t forget th’ number.