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to suggestion. He had it in mind that he wanted to
stop at Finnigan's, and he had nothing else in mind,
one concluded. The only information he volunteered
was that Finnigan was an old friend of his. "I knew
him when I had but one coat to my back." It would
have been useless to remind him that his dinner-coat
awaited him  at Mrs.  O'Donnell's, and that his
heavily-enveloped form had been by no means steady
on its legs^when he emerged from O'Grady's. There
was nothing now that I could do except assist him out
of the car and steer him through Finnigan's front
door, which was open to all-comers, since it was
neither more nor less than a village pub. In the bar-
parlour about a dozen Irish characters were increas-
ing the sale of malted spirits and jabbering with vehe-
ment voices. They welcomed The Mister like one of
themselves, and his vague wave of a fur-gloved hand
sufficed to signify "whiskies all round" and a subse-
quent drinking of The Mister's health. "Long life to
ye, Mister Blarnett," they chorused, and The Mister's
reply was majestic. "Long life to ye all, and may I
never in me grandeur forget that I was born no better
than any one of you and me money made in America.'5
His voice was husky, but the huskiness was not in-
duced by emotion. The air was thick with bad tobacco
smoke and I was longing to be back in Limerick, but
there was something very touching in the sight of the
tipsy old Mister. There he sat in his scarlet coat, nod-
ding his white head and beaming hazily around him,
every bit as glad to be among these humble people as
he had been in Tom Philipson's fine house. More at
home, perhaps, in his heart of hearts, and dimly
aware of his youth and those hard times before he
went to the States and—Heaven knows how—made,
and failed to be swindled out of—his fortune. Keg-

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