‘“If you let that lovely man die—mind!”
‘In about twenty minutes he came back, wheeling a case of whisky in a barrow. He carried the case inside, and dumped it down on the floor.
‘“There,” he said, “pour that into the lovely man.”
‘Then he shook his fist at such members of the staff as were visible, and said—
‘“If you let that lovely man die—look out!”
‘They were used to hard-cases, and didn’t take much notice of him, but he had the hospital in an awful mess; he was there all hours of the day and night; he would go down town, have a few drinks and a fight maybe, and then he’d say, “Ah, well, I’ll have to go up and see how me lovely mate’s getting on.”
‘And every time he’d go up he’d shake his fist at the hospital in general and threaten to murder ‘em all if they let Dinny Murphy die.
‘Well, Dinny Murphy died one night. The next morning the Flour met the doctor in the street, and hauled off and hit him between the eyes, and knocked him down before he had time to see who it was.
‘“Stay there, ye little whipper-snapper,” said the Flour of Wheat; “you let that lovely man die!”
‘The police happened to be out of town that day, and while they were waiting for them the Flour got a coffin and carried it up to the hospital, and stood it on end by the doorway.