hin Mrs. O'Grady put a bottle in Flaherty's hands. 'What's
this?' says Flaherty. 'Howly wather,' says Mrs. O'Grady. 'Sprinkle it
on him,' says Mrs. O'Grady. 'Woman,' says th' tailor between th'
chapter iv th' book, 'this is no time f'r miracles,' he says. An' he
give O'Grady's ghost a treminjous wallop on th' head. Now, whether it
was th' wather or th' wallop, I'll not tell ye; but, annyhow, th'
ghost give wan yell an' disappeared. An' th' very next Sundah, whin
Father Kelly wint into th' pulpit at th' gospel, he read th' names iv
Roger Kickham Flaherty an' Mary Ann O'Grady."

"Did the ghost ever come back?" asked Mr. McKenna.

"Niver," said Mr. Dooley. "Wanst was enough. But, mind ye, I'd hate to
have been wan iv th' other ghosts th' night O'Grady got home fr'm th'
visit to O'Flaherty's. There might be ghosts that cud stand him off
with th' gloves, but in a round an' tumble fight he cud lick a St.
Patrick's Day procession iv thim."

THE SOFT SPOT.

"Anny more cyclone news?" Mr. Dooley asked Mr. McKenna, as he came in
with a copy of an extra paper in his hand.

"Nothing much," Mr. McKenna responded. "This paper says the angel of
death has give up riding on the whirlwind."

"Tis betther so," said Mr. Dooley: "a bicycle is more satisfactory f'r
a steady thing. But, faith, 'tis no jokin' matter. May th' Lord
forgive me f'r makin' light iv it! Jawn, whin I read about thim poor
people down in St. Looey, sthruck be th' wrath iv Hivin' without more
warnin' thin a man gets in a Polock church fight an' swept to their
graves be th' hundherds, me heart ached in me.

"But they'se always some compinsation in th' likes iv this. To see th'
wurruld as it r-runs along in its ordinrey coorse, with ivry man
seemin' to be lookin' f'r th' best iv it an' carryin' a little hammer
f'r his fellow-suff'rers, ye'd think what Hinnissy calls th' springs
iv human sympathy was as dhry in th' breast as a bricklayer's boot in
a box iv mortar. But let annything happen like this, an' men ye'd
suspect iv goin' round with a cold chisel liftin' name-plates off iv
coffins comes to th' front with their lips full iv comfort an'
kindliness an', what's more to th' point, their hands full iv coin.

"Years ago there used to be a man be th' name iv O'Brien--no relation
iv th' sinitor--lived down be th' dumps. He was well off, an' had quit
wur-rkin' f'r a living. Well, whether he'd been disappointed in love
or just naturally had a kick up to him aga