“Clancy ain’t so many, if he does run a grocery store. Annie’s willin’ to call it a go, an’ I don’t see—Gee! Here comes O’Hara.”
The second-hand dealer had just come out of his shop; he wore his narrow-rimmed high hat and carried his thick black-thorn cane.
“Good mornin’ till yez, McGonagle,” saluted he.
“How are youse?” responded Goose.
“I have no rayson till complain,” said O’Hara. Then he tapped his stick once or twice upon the pavement, and cleared his throat. “McGonagle,” said he, “yez will be after havin’ the troifle av money that’s due me nixt week?”
“Why, say, O’Hara, t’tell youse the trut’ I don’t see how I kin git it. Bizness is so rotten bad, ye know.”
“What’s that? Bad luck till ye, McGonagle, what talk have yez?”
“Don’t git hot! Youse heard me speak me piece, didn’t ye? Well, that’s jist what I mean. An’ I can’t stand chewin’ it with youse all day, O’Hara; me customers’ll be waitin’ for their milk. So long.”
And with this he hurried off while O’Hara gazed angrily after him for a moment, then started off toward Clancy’s.
“The bla’gard!” muttered O’Hara. “The thafe av the world till keep a daysint man out av his bit av money!”