Ye catch th' wurruds, 'Grape Pie,' 'Canned Salmon,'
'Cast-iron digestion.' Still he doesn't come up. He tells a few stories
to th' childher. He weighs th' youngest in his hands an' says: 'That's a
fine boy ye have, Mrs. Hinnissy. I make no doubt he'll grow up to be a
polisman.' He examines th' phottygraft album an' asks if that isn't
so-an'-so. An' all this time ye lay writhin' in mortal agony an' sayin'
to ye'ersilf: 'Inhuman monsther, to lave me perish here while he chats
with a callous woman that I haven't said annything but What? to f'r
twinty years.'
"Ye begin to think there's a conspiracy against ye to get ye'er money
befure he saunters into th' room an' says in a gay tone: 'Well, what
d'ye mane be tyin' up wan iv th' gr-reat industhrees iv our nation be
stayin' away fr'm wurruk f'r a day?' 'Dock,' says ye in a feeble voice,
'I have a tur'ble pain in me abdumdum. It reaches fr'm here to here,'
makin' a rough sketch iv th' burned disthrict undher th' blanket. 'I
felt it comin' on last night but I didn't say annything f'r fear iv
alarmin' me wife, so I simply groaned,' says ye.
"While ye ar-re describin' ye'er pangs, he walks around th' room lookin'
at th' pictures. Afther ye've got through he comes over an says: 'Lave
me look at ye'er tongue.
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