“Do you know his address?”
“Do I, don’t I?” cried Pat. “Would yez be afther sinding a letther to the mon?”
“That’s the idea,” said Frank.
“For what?”
“To get him to come out here and travel with me.”
“And with that thing?”
“Yes,” said Frank. “He was the darndest cuss to fight that ever I laid my eyes on. He was always spoiling for a first class shake-up or knock-down, and he was the toughest boy in a rough hand-to-hand scrimmage that ever walloped his way through the West. I could depend on him when there was fighting for us to handle, and he was a mighty stanch friend to me. What’s his address?”
“Esquire Barney Shea, Clonakilty, County of Cork, Ireland.”
“All right,” said Frank, jotting it down in a book, “I’ve got it.”
“Whist now,” said Pat, “whin ye direct the letther, moind that yez don’t lave off the esquire.”