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'Hinnissy, says I, 'come home, I says, 'an' don't disgrace ye'er gray hairs befure th' whole parish, says I. 'I'll have ye to know, says he, 'that 'tis not long since I cud cut a double eight with anny wan in Bridgeport, he says.
Ye'er hat's dinted, an' ye have ye'er necktie over ye'er ear; an' I see be ye'er hand ye've hit a Dutchman. Jawn, ye know no more about politics thin a mimber iv this here Civic Featheration. Didn't ye have a beer bottle or an ice-pick?
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.
He cracked jokes an' he made speeches; an' he took th' pipes fr'm under th' elbow iv Hogan, th' blindman, an' played 'Th' Wind that shakes th' Barley' till ye'd have wore ye'er leg to a smoke f'r wantin' to dance. Thin he wint to th' dure with th' two iv thim; an' says he, 'Well, he says, 'Jim, be good to her, he says, an' shook hands with her through th' carredge window.
My blood hath served thine f'r manny ginerations. At laste two. 'Twas thine old man that blacked my father's eye an' sint my uncle up f'r eighty days. How will ye'er honor have th' accursed swine's flesh cooked f'r breakfast in th' mornin' when I'm through fannin' ye? "But now, says Hogan, it's all changed.
''Tis a long way fr'm ye'er plant to here, he says, 'an' be th' time a cargo iv liberty, he says, 'got out here an' was handled be th' middlemen, he says, 'it might spoil, he says. 'We don't want anny col' storage or embalmed liberty, he says.
I'm perfectly willin' to take ye'er weight or ye'er soul's weight fr'm what th' scales say. Little I care. A pound or two more or less makes no diff'rence. But when it comes to measurin' something that's precious to me, I'll not thrust it to a slight improvement on a see-saw. "But what do I know about it, annyhow? What do I know about annything?
'Well, says he, 'I make no doubt 'twas brave iv Dorgan, he says, 'f'r to put his name in f'r th' tenth call, he says; 'but, he says, 'I don't like Plunkett, an' it seems to me a man'd have to be a hell iv a sthrong man, even if he was a hero, to be Plunkett's man, an' keep his hands out iv ye'er pockets, he says. 'I'm with Clancy's candydate, he says.
'It does no good in these degin'rate days to prove that th' best that can come to a man f'r behavin' himsilf is to be cooked in a pot or di-gisted be a line, he says. 'Ye're wrong, says I. 'Beggin' ye'er riv'rince's pardon, ye're wrong, I says. 'What ar-re ye goin' to do with thim young wans? Ye're goin' to make thim near-sighted an' round-shouldered, I says.
Well, th' three iv us sits here an' pass th' dhrink an' sing our songs iv glee till about ilivin o'clock; thin ye begin to look over ye'er shouldher ivry time ye hear a woman's voice an' fin'lly ye get up an' yawn an' dhrink ivrything on th' table an' gallop home.
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