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Thin he called out to his wife. 'Honoria, he says, 'bring a bar'l, he says. 'Molly has come away without annything on, he says, 'but Sarsfield's pa-ants. Thin he turned on his daughter. 'May th' Lord forgive ye, Molly Donahue, he says, 'this night! he says. 'Child, where is ye'er dhress? 'Tut, tut! says th' good man. 'Molly, he says, 'ye look well on that there bicycle, he says.
"No wan knowed she had th' bicycle, because she wint out afther dark an' practised on it down be th' dump. But las' Friday ev'nin', lo an' behold, whin th' r-road was crowded with people fr'm th' brick-yards an' th' gas-house an' th' mills, who shud come ridin' along be th' thracks, bumpin' an' holdin' on, but Molly Donahue? An' dhressed! How d'ye suppose she was dhressed? In pa-ants, Jawn avick.
Not that I've annything again thim: 'tis thim that divides our sorrows an' doubles our joys, an' sews chiny buttons on our pa-ants an' mends our shirts with blue yarn. But they'll lead a man to desthruction an' back again, thim same women. "Well, Felix had no luck coortin' Molly Donahue.
In pa-ants. Oh, th' shame iv it! Ivry wan on th' sthreet stopped f'r to yell. Little Julia Dorgan called out, 'Who stole Molly's dhress? Ol' man Murphy was settin' asleep on his stoop. He heerd th' noise, an' woke up an' set his bull tarrier Lydia Pinkham on her. Malachi Dorsey, vice-prisident iv th' St. Aloysius Society, was comin' out iv th' German's, an' see her.
"Your progeny will probably resemble herons, Champneys, and serve 'em right! Are those new gloves? I am a credit to Rabbits!" And he rushed off. "What a friend we have in Champ-neys, All his gloves and pa-ants to wear!" Stocks sang in a voice like the scraping of a mattock over flint; one saw that he had been piously raised.
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