knob.  Ring it.  It’s a punchin’ bag.  Hit it, if ye dahr.  F’r two pins I’d push in th’ face iv ye.’  An’, mind ye, Hinnissy, Toolan had said not wan wurrud about th’ beak,—­not wan wurrud.  An’ ivry wan in th’ house was talkin’ about it, an’ wondhrin’ whin it ’d come off an’ smash somewan’s fut.  I looked f’r a fight there an’ thin.  But Toolan’s a poor-spirited thing, an’ he wint away.  At that up comes Scanlan; an’ says he:  ‘Look here, young fellow,’ he says, ’don’t get gay,’ he says, ‘don’t get gay,’ he says.  ‘What’s that?’ says Hogan.  Whin a man says, ‘What’s that?’ in a bar-room, it manes a fight, if he says it wanst.  If he says it twict, it manes a fut race.  ‘I say,’ says Scanlan, ’that, if ye make anny more funny cracks, I’ll hitch a horse to that basket fender,’ he says, ‘an’ dhrag it fr’m ye,’ he says.  At that Hogan dhrew his soord, an’ says he:  ‘Come on,’ he says, ’come on, an’ take a lickin,’ he says.  An’ Scanlan dhrew his soord, too.  ‘Wait,’ says Hogan.  ‘Wait a minyit,’ he says.  ‘I must think,’ he says.  ’I must think a pome,’ he says.  ‘Whiniver I fight,’ he says, ’I always have a pome,’ he says.  ‘Glory be,’ says I, ’there’s Scanlan’s chanst to give it to him,’ I says.  But Scanlan was as slow as a dhray; an’, before he cud get action, Hogan was at him, l’adin’ with th’ pome an’ counthrin’ with the soord.  ‘I’ll call this pome,’ he says, ’a pome about a gazabo I wanst had a dool with in Finucane’s hall,’ he says.  ’I’ll threat ye r-right,’ he says, ‘an’ at the last line I’ll hand ye wan,’ he says.  An’ he done it.  ‘Go in,’ he says in th’ pome, ‘go in an’ do ye’er worst,’ he says.  ‘I make a pass at ye’er stomach,’ he says, ’I cross ye with me right,’ he says; ‘an,’ he says at th’ last line, he says, ‘I soak ye,’ he says.  An’ he done it.  Th’ minyit ‘twas over with th’ pome ‘twas off with Scanlan.  Th’ soord wint into him, an’ he sunk down to th’ flure; an’ they had to carry him off.  Well, sir, Hogan was that proud ye cudden’t hold him f’r th’ rest iv th’ night.  He wint around ivrywhere stickin’ people an’ soakin’ thim with pothry.  He’s a gr-reat pote is this here Hogan, an’ a gr-reat fighter.  He done thim all at both; but, like me ol’ frind Jawn L., he come to th’ end.  A man dhropped a two-be-four on his head wan day, an’ he died.  Honoria Casey was with him as he passed away, an’ she says, ‘How d’ye feel?’ ’All right,’ says Hogan.  ’But wan thing I’ll tell ye has made life worth livin’,’ he says.  ‘What’s that?’ says Miss Casey.  ‘I know,’ says I.  ‘Annywan cud guess it.  He manes his nose,’ I says.  But ivrywan on th’ stage give it up.  ‘Ye don’t know,’ says Hogan. ‘’Tis me hat,’ he says; an’, makin a low bow to th’ aujience, he fell to th’ flure so hard that his nose fell off an’ rowled down on Mike Finnegan.  ’I don’t like th’ play,’ says Finnegan, ‘an’ I’ll break ye’er nose,’ he says; an’ he done it.  He’s a wild divvle.  Hogan thried to rayturn th’ compliment on th’ sidewalk afterward; but he cudden’t think iv a pome, an’ Finnegan done him.”