The little man came into the room, took of his heavy silk-hat and looked up at O'Connell with a quizzing look in his laughing eyes.
"McGinnis!" was all the astonished agitator could say.
"That's who it is! 'Talkative McGinnis,' come all the way from ould Ireland to take ye by the hand."
The two men shook hands warmly and in a few moments O'Connell had the little doctor in the most comfortable seat in the room, a cigar between his lips and a glass of whiskey—and—water at his elbow.
"An' what in the wurrld brings ye here, docthor?" asked O'Connell.
"Didn't ye hear?"
"I've heard nothin', I'm tellin' ye."
"Ye didn't hear of me old grand-uncle, McNamara of County Sligo dyin'—after a useless life—and doin' the only thing that made me proud of him now that he's gone—may he slape in peace—lavin' the money he'd kept such a close fist on all his life to his God-fearin' nephew so that he can spind the rest of his days in comfort? Didn't ye hear that?"
"I did not. And who was the nephew that came into it?"
"Meself, Frank O'Connell!"