TOO MUCH WORK.
Pat had seen nearly every clock in the place, but had discarded all of them as not being good enough for his purpose. The weary shopman had exhausted his whole stock, except a few cuckoo clocks, so he brought these forward as a last resource, and vowed he would do his best to sell one or know the reason why.
“Do the clocks strike the hour?” asked Pat, noticing their curious shape, and half doubting their capacity to do anything.
“I’ll show you what they do,” said the salesman; and he set the hands of one to a few minutes to twelve. When the little door flew open and the cuckoo thrust his head out, cuckooing away for dear life, Pat was thunderstruck. But when the bird disappeared he looked glum, and pondered in gloomy thought for a moment.
“Well, how do you like that?” asked the salesman. “That’s a staggerer for you, isn’t it?”
“Faith and begorra, I should think it is,” declared Pat. “It’s trouble enough to remember to wind it, without having to think of feeding the bird.”
The chauffeur never spoke except when addressed, but his few utterances, given in a broad brogue, were full of wit.
One of the men in the party remarked: “You’re a bright sort of a fellow, and it’s easy to see that your people came from Ireland.”