"Well, come up, poppy; what'll you take?" said the boys.
"Sperrets, boys; good old sperrets. I do like good sperrets, boys, and that sperrets, Mister (to the ruffled-bosomed bar-keeper), o' your'n is like my dog—can't be beat!"
"Well, daddy," continued the dog men, "where'd you get your dog?"
"That dog," said the old fellow, again giving his mouth a back-hander, and his "ah-h-h!" accompaniment; "well, I'll tell you, boys, all about it."
"Do, poppy, that's right; now, tell us all about it," they cried.
"Well, boys, 'd any you know Ben. McConachy, out here at the Risin' Sun Tavern?"
"We've heard of him, daddy—go on," says they.
"Well, I worked for Ben. McConachy, one winter; he was a pizen mean man, but his wife—wasn't she mean? Why, boys, she'd spread all the bread with butter afore we sat down to breakfast; she'd begin with a quarter pound of butter, and when she'd got through, she had twice as much left."
"But how about the dog, daddy? Come, tell us about your dog."
"Well, yes, I'll tell you, boys. You see, Ben. McConachy owned this dog; set up, Barney—look at his ears, boys—great, ain't they? Well, Ben's wife was mean—meaner than pizen. She hated this dog; she hated any thing that et; she considered any body, except her and her daughter (a pizen ugly gal), that et three pieces of bread and two cups of coffee at a meal, awful!"