An’ faith I’ve a flourishin’ trade,
I bought out me cousin, Nathaniel Doyle,
The money on whisky I made,
I could sell to youse now a nice pusse caffey,
Or a Rhino-Victoria cigar;
No slate, chalk or pencil is kept in the house,
Whin Malone’s at the back av the bar.”
Harrigan.
THE big gilt sign over Kelly’s saloon on Girard Avenue was all a-glitter with morning sunlight; a crowd of hangers-on leaned against the awning-frame, watching with admiration the ease with which a powerful German, in a leather apron, lifted huge kegs in and out of a brewer’s wagon.
Within, James Kelly stood behind the bar polishing thin glasses, and frowning vexedly; a group of customers sat at a table drinking and watching the deft fingers of Nobby Foley guide a pencil along a narrow strip of paper.