“Good-mornin’ to yez, sir,” said the visitor.
It was a peculiarity of Peter’s that he never forgot faces. He did not know Mr. Moriarty’s name, never having had it given him, but he placed him instantly.
“Thank you,” said Peter, holding out his hand. Peter did not usually shake hands in meeting people, but he liked the man’s face. It would never take a prize for beauty. The hair verged on a fiery red, the nose was a real sky-scraper and the upper lip was almost proboscidian in its length. But every one liked the face.
“It’s proud Oi’m bein’ shakin’ the hand av Misther Stirling,” said the Irishman.
“Sit down,” said Peter.
“My name’s Moriarty, sir, Dinnis Moriarty, an’ Oi keeps a saloon near Centre Street, beyant.”
“You were round here in the procession.”
“Oi was, sir. Shure, Oi’m not much at a speech, compared to the likes av yez, but the b’ys would have me do it.”
Peter said something appropriate, and then there was a pause.
“Misther Stirling,” finally said Moriarty, “Oi was up before Justice Gallagher yesterday, an’ he fined me bad. Oi want yez to go to him, an’ get him to be easier wid me. It’s yezself can do it.”