“Misther Stirling, do yez know my name?”
“Dennis Moriarty, isn’t it?”
“Yes. An’ what’s my business?”
“You keep a saloon.”
“Yes. An’ what ward do Oi live in?”
“The sixth, don’t you?”
“Then,” said Dennis, his upper lip twisting into a smile of enormous proportions, “Oi suppose yez afther thinkin’ Oi’m a dirty black Republican.”
Peter laughed, as few could help doing, when Dennis led the way. “Look here, Dennis,” he said, “don’t you run down that party. My father was a Democrat, but he voted for Lincoln, and fought for the blacks when the time came, and though I’m a Democrat like him, the Republicans are only black in their sympathies, and not in their acts.”
“An’ what do yez say to the whisky frauds, an’ black Friday, an’ credit mobilier?” asked Dennis.
“Of course I don’t like them,” said Peter; “but that’s the politicians, not the party.”