et th' pain undherneath it is not.

"But ye know ye are goin' to die an' ye're not sure whether ye'll send
f'r Father Kelly or th' doctor. Ye finally decide to save up Father
Kelly f'r th' last an' ye sind f'r th' Dock. Havin' rescued ye fr'm th'
jaws iv death two or three times befure whin ye had a sick headache th'
Dock takes his time about comin', but just as ye are beginnin' to throw
ye'er boots at th' clock an' show other signs iv what he calls rigem
mortar, he rides up in his fine horse an' buggy. He gets out slowly, one
foot at a time, hitches his horse an' ties a nose bag on his head. Thin
he chats f'r two hundherd years with th' polisman on th' beat. He tells
him a good story an' they laugh harshly.

"Whin th' polisman goes his way th' Dock meets th' good woman at th'
dure an' they exchange a few wurruds about th' weather, th' bad
condition iv th' sthreets, th' health iv Mary Ann since she had th'
croup an' ye'ersilf. Ye catch th' wurruds, 'Grape Pie,' 'Canned Salmon,'
'Cast-iron digestion.' Still he doesn't come up. He tells a few stories
to th' childher. He weighs th' youngest in his hands an' says: 'That's a
fine boy ye have, Mrs. Hinnissy. I make no doubt he'll grow up to be a
polisman.' He examines th' phottygraft album an' asks if that isn't
so-an'-so. An' all this time ye lay writhin' in mortal agony an' sayin'
to ye'ersilf: 'Inhuman monsther, to lave me perish here while he chats
with a callous woman that I haven't said annything but What? to f'r
twinty years.'

"Ye begin to think there's a conspiracy against ye to get ye'er money
befure he saunters into th' room an' says in a gay tone: 'Well, what
d'ye mane be tyin' up wan iv th' gr-reat industhrees iv our nation be
stayin' away fr'm wurruk f'r a day?' 'Dock,' says ye in a feeble voice,
'I have a tur'ble pain in me abdumdum. It reaches fr'm here to here,'
makin' a rough sketch iv th' burned disthrict undher th' blanket. 'I
felt it comin' on last night but I didn't say annything f'r fear iv
alarmin' me wife, so I simply groaned,' says ye.

"While ye ar-re describin' ye'er pangs, he walks around th' room lookin'
at th' pictures. Afther ye've got through he comes over an says: 'Lave
me look at ye'er tongue. 'Hum,' he says, holdin' ye'er wrist an' bowin'
through th' window to a frind iv his on a sthreet car. 'Does that
hurt?' he says, stabbin' ye with his thumbs in th' suburbs iv th' pain.
'Ye know it does,' says ye with a groan. 'Don't do that again. Y