It's cool enough
f'r him now. Look, Jawn dear, an' see if there's an ice-pick undher me
chair.
"It 'd be more thin th' patience iv Job 'd stand to go through such
weather, an' be fit f'r society. They's on'y wan man in all th'
wurruld cud do it, an' that man's little Tim Clancy. He wurruks out in
th' mills, tin hours a day, runnin' a wheelbarrow loaded with
cindhers. He lives down beyant. Wan side iv his house is up again a
brewery, an' th' other touches elbows with Twinty-Percint Murphy's
flats. A few years back they found out that he didn't own on'y th'
front half iv th' lot, an' he can set on his back stoop an' put his
feet over th' fince now. He can, faith. Whin he's indures, he breathes
up th' chimbley; an' he has a wife an' eight kids. He dhraws wan
twinty-five a day--whin he wurruks.
"He come in here th' other night to talk over matthers; an' I was
stewin' in me shirt, an' sayin' cross things to all th' wurruld fr'm
th' tail iv me eye. ''Tis hot,' says I. ''Tis war-rum,' he says. ''Tis
dam hot,' says I. 'Well,' he says, ''tis good weather f'r th' crops,'
he says.
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