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"There was a nasty paice of bone sphlinter sticking in the crayture's brainpan; but, first, I trepanned him an' raymoved the impiddimint, an' the poor chap's now slayping as swately as a babby, slayping in the cap'en's cot over yonder! But come, colonel, I want ye to take some of this pay soup here afore I set to work carving ye about. Begorrah, it's foine stuff, an'll set ye up a bit to roights!"
"'Twas lucky I'd laid in supplies," exclaimed the genial Irish woman. "A body can never tell what starvin' crayture's comin' to the door beggin' for a crust." And now Molly Brown found herself, almost without realizing it, walking across the college grounds beside her Professor. "I can never, never thank you," she was saying. "I couldn't even try." "Don't try," he answered.
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