“Wait a bit,” said the foreman, and pointing to a marking-outfit he directed Dennis to display his name and address upon a smooth pine board which he provided for that purpose:
Dennis Muldoon,
The Stag Hotel,
Vesey St.,
N.Y.
“Ah, ha!” cried the foreman as he contrasted the name with the incongruous face of the young man before him, “ye don’t have to play it on a flute, annyway; there’s nothin’ Sheeny about that.” Then, directing his attention to the character of the work itself, he added: “That’s not bad at all, at all. See here,” he said abruptly, as he picked up the board which Dennis had decorated and fastened it to the warehouse wall with a nail, “Oi’ll kape that for riferince. Oh, Oi mane it,” he said with gruff assurance, as he noted the disappointment which shadowed the expressive face before him; “an’ mebbe ye won’t have to wait so long, nayther.”
“I hope not,” said Dennis frankly.
“Well, ye see,” said the foreman, “the prisint incoombent has been mixin’ too much red wid his paint, an’ it don’t wurrk.”
“You mean he drinks?” asked Dennis with humorous inquiry.
“Oi do,” replied the foreman; “an’ now that we have inthroduced th’ subject, excuse a personal quistion: Do ye wet yure whistle in business hours?”
“No,” answered Dennis promptly, “nor out of them. Father attended to that part of the business.”
“Well,” replied the foreman, “Oi can’t talk longer wid ye this marnin’. Come ’round be th’ ind of the wake,” and dismissing Dennis with a nod he withdrew into the warehouse.
The main feature of discouragement which presented itself to Dennis as he left this locality to ponder over its possibilities, was that the end of the week was five days off.