"My land!" ejaculated Mrs. Trapes, squaring her elbows in the doorway,
"I suspects he's a poet--an' him sech a nice little old gentleman!"

"A poet, ma'am!" exclaimed the Old Un indignantly, "not me, ma'am, not
me--should scorn t' be. I'm a 'ighly respected old fightin' man, I am,
as never went on th' cross:

"'A fightin' man I, ma'am,
An' wish I may die, ma'am,
If ever my backers I crossed;
An' what's better still, ma'am,
Though I forgot many a mill, ma'am,
Not one of 'em ever I lost.'"

"My land!" exclaimed Mrs. Trapes again. "What a memory!"

"Memory, ma'am!" growled Joe, "that ain't memory; 'e makes 'em up as 'e
goes along--"

"Joe," said the Old Un, glaring, "if the lady weren't here, an' axin'
'er pardon--I'd punch you in the perishin' eye-'ole for that!"

"All right, old vindictiveness," sighed Joe, "an' now, if you'll let go
of Spider Connolly's fist, I'd like to say 'ow do. Sit down an' give
some one else a chance to speak--sit down, you old bag o' wind--"

"Bag o'--" the old man dropped the Spider's nerveless hand to turn to
Mrs. Trapes with a gloomy brow. "You 'eard that, ma'am--you 'eard this
perishin' porker call me a bag o'--Joe, I blush for ye! Ma'am, pore Joe
means well, but 'e can't 'elp bein' a perisher--but"--and here the Old