“'I hope it's not bad news, sor,' says the big chap.
“'No, no,' says I. 'Not a bit of it, Mr. Dempsey. Come on in and have a cigar, won't you?'
“'Thank you, sor,' says he. 'I'm glad it's not the bad news. Sure, I ax you and your friend's pardon for bein' so short to yez this mornin', but I'm in that throuble lately that me timper is all but gone.'
“'That so?' says I. 'Trouble's thick in this world, ain't it? Me and Mr. Phinney got a case of trouble on our hands now, Mr. Dempsey, and—'
“'Excuse me, sor,' he says. 'My name's not Dempsey. I suppose you seen the sign with me partner's name on it. I only bought into the business a while ago, and the new sign's not ready yit. Me name is O'Shaughnessy, sor.'
“'What?' says I. And then: 'WHAT?'
“'O'Shaughnessy. Michael O'Shaughnessy. I—'
“'Hold on!' I sung out. 'For the land sakes, hold on! WHAT'S your name?'
“He bristled up like a cat.
“'Michael O'Shaughnessy,' he roars, like the bull of Bashan. 'D'yez find any fault with it? 'Twas me father's before me—Michael Patrick O'Shaughnessy, of County Sligo. I'll have yez know—WHAT'S THAT?'