for the whiskey-sellers
an' the tin-horn gamblers. Now they're straight an' sendin' their money
'ome. An' there's some as I know would be a lot better if they done the
same."

"Manin' mesilf, ye blaggard! An' tis thrue fer ye. But luk at the
docthor, will ye, ain't he down on the whiskey, too?"

"Yes, that's w'at I 'ear," conceded Ben. "But e'll soak 'em good at
poker."

"Bedad, it's the truth ye're spakin," said Tommy enthusiastically. "An'
it wud do ye more good than a month's masses to see him take the hair
aff the tin horns, the divil fly away wid thim! An' luk at the 'rid
lights'--"

"'Red lights'?" interrupted Ben. "Now ye're talkin'. Who cleared up the
'rid lights' at Bull Crossin'."

"Who did, thin?"

"Who? The Reverend Richard Boyle is the man."

"Aw, run in an' shut the dure! Ye're walkin' in yer slape."

"Mr. Tate, I 'appen to know the facts in this 'ere particular case,
beggin' yer 'umble pardon." Ben's h's became more lubricous with his
rising indignation. "An' I 'appen to know that agin the Pioneer's
violent opposition, agin the business men, agin his own helder a-keepin'
the drug shop, agin the hagent of the town site an' agin the whole
blawsted, bloomin' population, that 'ere preacher put up a fight, by the
jumpin' Jemima! that made 'em all 'unt their 'oles!"

"Aw, Benny, it's wanderin' agin ye are! Did ye niver hear how the
docthor walked intil the big meetin' an' in five minutes made the iditor
av the Pioneer an' the town site agent an' that bunch look like last
year's potaty patch fer ould shaws, wid the spache he gave thim?"

"No," said Ben, "I didn't 'ear any such thing, I didn't."

"Well, thin, go out into society, me bhoy, an' kape yer ears clane."

"My ears don't require no such cleanin' as some I know!" cried Ben,
whose self-control was strained to the point of breaking.

"Manin' mesilf agin. Begorra, it's yer game leg that saves ye from a
batin'!"

"I don't fight no sick man in our own 'ospital," replied Ben scornfully,
"but w'en yer sufficiently recovered, I'd be proud to haccommodate yeh.
But as fer this 'ere preacher--"

"Aw, go on wid yer preacher an' yer hull outfit! The docthor yonder's
worth--"

"Now, Mr. Tate, this 'ere's goin' past the limit. I can put up with a
good deal of abuse from a sick man, but w'en I 'ears any reflections
thrown out at this 'ere 'ospital an' them as runs it, by the livin'
jumpin' Jemima Jebbs! I hain't goin' to stand it, not me!" Ben's voic