“My grandfather, he, at the age of eighty-three,
One day in May was taken ill and died,
And after he was dead, the will, of course, was read,
By a lawyer, as we all stood by his side.”
Popular Song.
LARRY MURPHY awoke and sat up in bed; the sun was streaming in through the one small window of Mrs. McGonagle’s third story room, and the peal of the bell sounded solemnly in his ears. Through the window could be seen the church tower, pointing like a gigantic finger heavenward; the hands of the clock were slowly lifting as though to screen its face from the glare of the sun. Larry stretched himself lazily.
“Solemn High Mass,” yawned he.
A second young man lay upon a cot opposite, propped up with a pillow and reading a pink sporting paper. He glanced up.
“That’s the one,” remarked he, “that the property holders come together at, ain’t it? Ye kin see every plug hat in the parish on Second Street at half past ten on Sunday morning; but I’ll bet five cases to one that the collection ain’t no heavier than it is at the one what the dump-cart drivers goes to.”
Young Murphy grinned. “Ye’d better not say too much about that when yer on the street,” advised he. “Some o’ the Turks around here’s dead sore on youse since youse led the march at the ‘Sons o’ Derry’s Ball,’ an’ they’ll cop youse a sly one when yer not next.”