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I mind back in eighty-five or maybe 'twas eighty-three ut was whin O'Brien 'Flapjack' O'Brien they called him then, though he's climbed high enough since well, whin O'Brien was a plain, iveryday, thievin' conthractor, and a dom bad wan at that, he had a nephew named Burke that married a Finnegan or maybe ut was Finucane whose father pulled ould Sivinty-six, a wood-burnin' monsthrosity iv an ingin' that be th' grace iv God an' a full sand box might be good for a 3-per-cent grade anny dry day in summer but a Friday.
He lost his balance, an' fell fr'm th' scaffoldin' he was wurrukin' on; an' th' last wurruds he said was, 'Did I get him or didn't I? Mrs. O'Grady said it was th' will iv Gawd; an' he was burrid at Calvary with a funeral iv eighty hacks, an' a great manny people in their own buggies. Dorsey, th' conthractor, was there with his wife. He thought th' wurruld an' all iv O'Grady.
You know Shaughnessy, a quite man that come into th' road before th' fire. He wurruked f'r Larkin, th' conthractor, f'r near twinty years without skip or break, an' seen th' fam'ly grow up be candle-light. Th' oldest boy was intinded f'r a priest.
'Tis a horrible situation. Riley th' conthractor dhropped in here th' other day in his horse an' buggy on his way to the dhrainage canal an' he was all wurruked up over th' question. 'Why, he says, ''tis scand'lous th' way servants act, he says. 'Mrs. Riley has hystrics, he says.
"How'd you know I was Irish?" demanded the patient. "By yoursilf's name," quoth P. Sybarite in a thick brogue as natural as grass, while he worked away busily. "'Tis black Irish, and well I know it. 'Twas me mither's maiden name Kenny. She had a brother, Michael he was and be way av bein' a rich conthractor in this very town as ever was, befure he died God rist his sowl!
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