So they lined up in front of the bar, expressing their amazement over the accomplishment of the dog and burdening Merriwell with questions, all of which Frank cheerfully answered or skilfully evaded.
Boxer had been lifted and placed on one end of the bar, where he immediately sat, surveying the line of men with his clear, intelligent eyes.
"Hello, Mike!" he called to the Irishman. "When did you leave the Old Dart?"
"It's goin' on three year now," answered the son of the Old Sod civilly; "and me name's not Moike—it's Pat."
The dog seemed to wink shrewdly.
"It's all the same," he declared; "Mike or Pat makes no difference, as long as your last name is Murphy."
"But me last name's not Murphy at all, at all—it's O'Grady, av yez plaze."
"Thanks," snickered the dog. "I have it down pat now. It's a way I have of finding out a man's name when no one takes the trouble to introduce him. Drink[Pg 216] hearty, Pat; the whisky'll add to the beautiful tint of your nose."
"Begorra! it's a divvil the crayther is!" muttered Pat, nudging his nearest neighbor.
"Ah, there, Chink!" called the setter, seeming to get his eye on the Chinaman, who was staring open-mouthed. "How's the washee-washee business?"