“I tell you,” said Pat, “the ould friends are the best, after all, and I
can prove it.”
“How?”
“Where can you find a new friend that has stood by you as long as the
ould ones have?”
* * * * *
An Irishman went to England in search of work, and when shown his room in
the boarding-house the landlady remarked:
“There’s your bed, Pat, and there are two more to sleep with you, but
they won’t be in till late, so don’t be alarmed.”
“They’re welcome,” replied Pat. Before retiring Pat locked his bedroom
door and during the night he was awakened by great knocking.
“Whose there?” asked Pat.
“We are the lodgers. Open.”
“No room for ye,” replied Pat.
“How many of you are in the room?” they asked.
“Enough,” said Pat. “There’s meself, Paddy Murphy, a man that came over
from Ireland, a man looking for work, a man with a wife and six children,
an’ a Tipperary man, too.” By this time they had fled.
* * * * *
“Well,” said the doctor to Pat, “did that cure for deafness really help
your brother?”
“Arrah, sure enough,” said Pat. “He hadn’t heard a sound for years, and
the day after he took that medicine he heard from a friend in America.”
* * * * *
She was a sweet little thing with the most waspy of wasplike waists, and
passers-by had nothing but admiration in their eyes for her.
But what was that? She had fainted. Tenderly they carried her into a drug
store. An Irishman who had observed the occurrence, looked in after a few
minutes, and inquired:
“How is she now?”
“Oh,” was the reply, “she’s coming to.”
“Ah,” murmured the son of Erin, “come in two—has she? Poor thing! Bedad,
it’s just what I was afraid of.”
* * * * *