Widow—Oh, indade, indade, young mahn, me poor heart is bruk.
Mr. Slick—Very sad, Mrs. Clancy. A great misfortune, I'm sure. Now, Mrs. Clancy, I've called to—
Widow—Little did I t'ink, young mahn, win they brought poor Moike in that it was th' lasht!
Mr. Slick (with conviction)—True! True! Very true, indeed. It was a great grief to you, Mrs. Clancy. I've called this morning, Mrs. Clancy, to see if I could get from you a short obituary notice for the Blanket if you could—
Widow—An' his hid was done up in a rag, an' he was cursin' frightful. A damned Oytalian lit fall th' hod as Moike was walkin' pasht as dacint as you plaze. Win they carried 'im in, him all bloody, an' ravin' tur'ble 'bout Oytalians, me heart was near bruk, but I niver tawt—I niver tawt—I—I niver—(Breaks forth into a long, forlorn cry. The children join in, and the chorus echoes wailfully through the rooms.)
Mr. Slick (as the yell, in a measure, ceases)—Yes, indeed, a sad, sad affair. A terrible misfortune. Now, Mrs. Clancy—
Widow (turning suddenly)—Mary Ann. Where's thot lazy divil of a Mary Ann? (As the servant appears.) Mary Ann, bring th' bottle! Give th' gintlemin a dhrink!... Here's to Hiven savin' yez, young mahn. (Drinks.)
Mr. Slick (drinks)—A noble whisky, Mrs. Clancy. Many thanks. Now, Mrs. Clancy—
Widow—Take anodder wan! Take anodder wan! (Fills his glass.)
Mr. Slick (impatiently)—Yes, certainly, Mrs. Clancy, certainly. (He drinks.) Now, could you tell me, Mrs. Clancy, where your late husband was—