I, 'carry into th' new
year th' hathreds iv th' old?' I says. 'Let th' dead past bury its
dead,' says I. 'Tur-rn ye'er lamps up to th' blue sky,' I says. (It was
rainin' like th' divvle, an' th' hour was midnight; but I give no heed
to that, bein' comfortable with th' hot wans.) An' I wint to th' dure,
an', whin Mike Duffy come by on number wan hundherd an' five, ringin'
th' gong iv th' ca-ar, I hollered to him: 'Ring out th' old, ring in th'
new.' 'Go back into ye'er stall,' he says, 'an' wring ye'ersilf out,' he
says. 'Ye'er wet through,' he says.

"Whin I woke up this mornin', th' pothry had all disappeared, an' I
begun to think th' las' hot wan I took had somethin' wrong with it.
Besides, th' lumbago was grippin' me till I cud hardly put wan foot
befure th' other. But I remimbered me promises to mesilf, an' I wint out
on th' sthreet, intindin' to wish ivry wan a 'Happy New Year,' an'
hopin' in me hear-rt that th' first wan I wished it to'd tell me to go
to th' divvle, so I cud hit him in th' eye. I hadn't gone half a block
before I spied Dorsey acrost th' sthreet. I picked up a half a brick an'
put it in me pocket, an' Dorsey done th' same. Thin we wint up to each
other. 'A Happy New Year,' says I. 'Th' same to you,' says he, 'an'
manny iv thim,' he says. 'Ye have a brick in ye'er hand,' says I. 'I was
thinkin' iv givin' ye a New Year's gift,' says he. 'Th' same to you, an'
manny iv thim,' says I, fondlin' me own ammunition. ''Tis even all
around,' says he. 'It is,' says I. 'I was thinkin' las' night I'd give
up me gredge again ye,' says he. 'I had th' same thought mesilf,' says
I. 'But, since I seen ye'er face,' he says, 'I've con-cluded that I'd be
more comfortable hatin' ye thin havin' ye f'r a frind,' says he. 'Ye're
a man iv taste,' says I. An' we backed away fr'm each other. He's a Tip,
an' can throw a stone like a rifleman; an', Hinnissy, I'm somethin' iv
an amachoor shot with a half-brick mesilf.

"Well, I've been thinkin' it over, an' I've argied it out that life'd
not be worth livin' if we didn't keep our inimies. I can have all th'
frinds I need. Anny man can that keeps a liquor sthore. But a rale
sthrong inimy, specially a May-o inimy,--wan that hates ye ha-ard, an'
that ye'd take th' coat off yer back to do a bad tur-rn to,--is a luxury
that I can't go without in me ol' days. Dorsey is th' right sort. I
can't go by his house without bein' in fear he'll spill th' chimbly down
on me head; an', whin he p