You doubtless saw that I was a little horse--in other words, that I have
something of a colt this evening.
Now, I'm pretty good at making excuses myself, but I give the cake to
Reddy Moriarty.
You see, he's a fellow working on the subway, under an old friend of
mine, a Maj. Dickerson.
Just while I was interviewing the contractor the other morning, who
should come along but Moriarty.
The foreman was mad clean through, and I thought only Reddy's ready
Irish could save him from a hauling over the coals.
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It did the same, by the powers.
"Nine o'clock!" snarled the foreman, "what d'yer mean by coming at this
time of day? It's a wonder a man of your independence troubles himself
about coming at all. Now, then, what's your excuse?"
Moriarty considered a moment, and at last the excuse came.
"Sure, sor," he said, "I dramed last night I was at a baseball match,
betwane the giants and the Champions, that ended in a tie. So the umpire
ordered extra innings to be played, and, begorra, sor, I only stopped to
see the finish!"
Moriarty was once a pilot.
"Faith," says he to me, "time was when I piloted all kinds of ships
into harbor, but I've redooced it all down to a system, and the only
sort I take over the bar now is schooners sor."
[Illustration]
But I musn't forget to tell you about my friend, old Dr. Raggles.
I always refer to him as "that old war horse." You'd know why, if you
cast your eye over that last bill he sent me. As a charger he'd be hard
to beat.
The doctor took a day off recently and ran up to a country town to see a
family horse that was for sale.
He tried the beast, fancied him, paid a stiff price for the outfit, and
rode off happy.
Three hours later he came back mad.
"Look here, sir!" he yelled, "this darned old horse won't do for me. He
shies. I can't get him to cross the bridge."
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"That's why I sold him," said the dealer. "Didn't I advertise my reasons
for selling him?"
"Yes; 'to be sold,' you stated, 'for no other reason than that the owner
wanted to get out of town.'"
"Well," says the dealer, "if you can get out of town with him, it will
be more than I can do!"
Say, I went on the road with a post office inspector last year.
First post office we struck, a big, strong Irish woman was behind the
counter.
"Ahem!" said the inspector. "I thought a man was in charge here!"
"Begorra, ye're roight, he was," said the lady; "but Oi married him, an'
Oi'm in charge now. Pfwat is it yez want?"
She was a Tartar, I tell you.
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