'I make a pass at ye'er stomach,' he says, 'I cross
ye with me right,' he says; 'an,' he says at th' last line, he says,
'I soak ye,' he says. An' he done it. Th' minyit 'twas over with th'
pome 'twas off with Scanlan. Th' soord wint into him, an' he sunk down
to th' flure; an' they had to carry him off. Well, sir, Hogan was that
proud ye cudden't hold him f'r th' rest iv th' night. He wint around
ivrywhere stickin' people an' soakin' thim with pothry. He's a gr-reat
pote is this here Hogan, an' a gr-reat fighter. He done thim all at
both; but, like me ol' frind Jawn L., he come to th' end. A man
dhropped a two-be-four on his head wan day, an' he died. Honoria Casey
was with him as he passed away, an' she says, 'How d'ye feel?' 'All
right,' says Hogan. 'But wan thing I'll tell ye has made life worth
livin',' he says. 'What's that?' says Miss Casey. 'I know,' says I.
'Annywan cud guess it. He manes his nose,' I says. But ivrywan on th'
stage give it up. 'Ye don't know,' says Hogan. ''Tis me hat,' he says;
an', makin a low bow to th' aujience, he fell to th' flure so hard
that his nose fell off an' rowled down on Mike Finnegan.
Pages:
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201