Was he not about to be admitted into paradise and receive twenty dollars per week besides?
“Shirt, ha!” he exclaimed with a touch of Celtic wit; “it’s a robe of white I want.” However, he compromised on a new necktie, and almost ventured the length of patent leathers.
Stimulated by the prospect of all this beatitude, Dennis proceeded to the dining-room and revived the spirit of the discouraged waiter by ordering a liberal breakfast.
At the conclusion of the meal he further celebrated his disposition to mortgage providence by the bestowal of a gratuity moderate enough to renew the waiter’s original unflattering estimation.
Had his father witnessed this imprudence he would have been prepared to believe that Dennis was under the influence of a danseuse, and the proportions of the breakfast could only have indicated a determination to commit suicide by repletion.
On his way to the street Dennis paused to inform the barman of his intended departure.
As an indication of his sentiments at this announcement, the barman, who was engaged in the mixture of a mysterious decoction, said, as he poured an amber-colored fluid into the glass: “This wan is fur grief at the goin’, an’ this wan”—pouring from another bottle—“is fur good luck when ye git there,” and he pushed the mixture toward Dennis.
But the young Irishman, remembering his recent experience, declined with thanks.
“No?” queried the barman. “Well, an’ that’s not a bad idea at all. It’s the right sthart fur a bad day an’ a bad sthart fur a right wan. ’Tis th’ divil’s own way av showin’ wan’s sintimints.” Then, reaching for the glass, he added: “I’ll do th’ honors fur th’ two av us”; and with the singular tendency, so often noted under such circumstances, to swallow with haste that which it required such trouble to prepare, the barman bolted the contents of the glass and looked his appreciation through moist eyes.
As Dennis neared the establishment of his employer, he recalled his obligation.