'Hughey,' said th'
father, 'you look very gran' to-night,' he says. 'Whose fun'ral ar-re
ye goin' to at this hour?' 'None but thim I makes mesilf,' says he.
'What d'ye mean?' says th' ol' man. 'I'm goin' over f'r to stand guard
in th' thracks,' says th' la-ad. Well, with that th' ol' man leaps up.
'Polisman,' he says. 'Polisman,' he says. 'Copper,' he says. 'Twas
on'y be Mrs. Dorgan comin' in an' quitein' th' ol' man with a chair
that hostilities was averted--as th' pa-apers says--right there an'
thin.
"Well, sir, will ye believe me, whin Dorgan wint over with th' mimbers
iv' th' union that night f'r to bur-rn something, there was me brave
Hughey thrampin' up an' down like a polisman on bate. Dorgan goes up
an' shakes his fist at him, an' th' la-ad gives him a jab with his
bayonet that makes th' poor ol' man roar like a bull. 'In th' name iv
th' people iv th' State iv Illinys,' he says, 'disperse,' he says, 'ye
riter,' he says; 'an', if ye don't go home,' he says, 'ye ol'
omadhon,' he says, 'I'll have ye thrun into jail,' he says.
"Dorgan haven't got over it yet.
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