thousand dollars,' he says, 'to th' citizen's comity,' he says, 'f'r
to prosecute him; an',' he says, 'gintlemen,' he says, 'there's th'
dure.'

"I seen Cassidy that night, an' he was as white as a ghost. 'What ails
ye?' says I. 'Have ye seen th' divvle?' 'Yes,' he says, bendin' his
head over th' bar, an' lookin' sivinty years instead iv forty-five."

A WINTER NIGHT.

Any of the Archey Road cars that got out of the barns at all were
pulled by teams of four horses, and the snow hung over the shoulders
of the drivers' big bearskin coats like the eaves of an old-fashioned
house on the blizzard night. There was hardly a soul in the road from
the red bridge, west, when Mr. McKenna got laboriously off the
platform of his car and made for the sign of somebody's celebrated
Milwaukee beer over Mr. Dooley's tavern. Mr. Dooley, being a man of
sentiment, arranges his drinks to conform with the weather. Now
anybody who knows anything at all knows that a drop of "J.J." and a
whisper (subdued) of hot water and a lump of sugar and lemon peel (if
you care for lemon peel) and nutmeg (if you are a "jood ") is a drink
calculated to tune a man's heart to the song of the wind slapping a
beer-sign upside down and the snow drifting in under the door. Mr.
Dooley was drinking this mixture behind his big stove when Mr. McKenna
came in.

"Bad night, Jawn," said Mr. Dooley.

"It is that," said Mr. McKenna.

"Blowin' an' storming', yes," said Mr. Dooley. "There hasn' been a can
in tonight but wan, an' that was a pop bottle. Is the snow-ploughs
out, I dinnaw?"

"They are," said Mr. McKenna.

"I suppose Doherty is dhrivin'," said Mr. Dooley. "He's a good
dhriver. They do say he do be wan iv the best dhrivers on th' road.
I've heerd that th' prisident is dead gawn on him. He's me cousin. Ye
can't tell much about what a man 'll be fr'm what th' kid is. That
there Doherty was th' worst omadhon iv a boy that iver I knowed. He
niver cud larn his a-ah-bee, abs. But see what he made iv himsilf! Th'
best dhriver on th' road; an', by dad, 'tis not twinty to wan he won't
be stharter befure he dies. 'Tis in th' fam'ly to make their names.
There niver was anny fam'ly in th' ol' counthry that turned out more
priests than th' Dooleys. By gar, I believe we hol' th' champeenship
iv th' wurruld. At M'nooth th' profissor that called th' roll got so
fr'm namin' th' Dooley la-ads that he came near bein' tur-rned down on
th' cha-arge that he was whistl