“God is good to me, sir,” said the hostler; “an’ whin it plazed him for to take me eyesight, he gev me sight in me ears an’ hands.”
“Here, my poor fellow.” And the stranger placed a coin in the other’s horny palm.
“A five-shilling bit! Och, thin, may the saints light ye to glory, an’ may ye never die till they sind for ye! It’s lonely they’ll be till ye go to thim.”
By this time the car was surrounded by a motley group of tatterdemalions of all ages, sizes, and sexes, in every stage of decrepitude and every variety of raggedness.
“Throw a few coppers to an ould widdy, an’ the Lord reward ye!” exclaimed one.
“Ye’ll never miss a fourpenny bit,” added another.
“A sixpince to an orfin will take a bag o’ coals from undher ye in purgathory,” chimed in a third.
“Give us the price av an ounce av tay,” droned a fourth.
“More power to the stars an’ sthripes! Three cheers for Ameriky, boys!” roared a leathern-lunged dwarf, throwing a rabbit-skin cap into the air. This appeal was responded to with an enthusiasm that brought the fire into the stranger’s eye. Turning round upon the steps of the hotel—along, thatched, whitewashed, two-storied building—he made a sign as if desirous of addressing the assemblage.
“Be jabers! he’s going for to spake.”