'He's kilt,' says I. 'I think he is,' says Dorgan, with a
merry smile. 'Twas my boy Jimmy done it, too,' says he. 'He'll be
arrested f'r murdher,' says I. 'He will not,' says he. 'There's on'y wan
polisman in town cud take him, an' he's down town doin' th' same f'r
somebody,' he says. Well, they carried th' corpse to th' side, an' took
th' ball out iv his stomach with a monkey wrinch, an' th' game was
rayshumed. 'Sivin, sixteen, eight, eleven,' says Saint Aloysius; an'
young Dorgan started to run down th' field. They was another young la-ad
r-runnin' in fr-ront iv Dorgan; an', as fast as wan iv th' Christyan
Brothers come up an' got in th' way, this here young Saint Aloysius
grabbed him be th' hair iv th' head an' th' sole iv th' fut, an' thrun
him over his shoulder. 'What's that la-ad doin'?' says I. 'Interfering'
says he. 'I shud think he was,' says I, 'an' most impudent,' I says.
''Tis such interference as this,' I says, 'that breaks up fam'lies'; an'
I come away.
"'Tis a noble sport, an' I'm glad to see us Irish ar-re gettin' into it.
Pages:
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118