THE LUCK OF THE IRISH
William walked down to the rear end of the shop and rapped on the office door. Ordinarily he would have entered without formality.
"Say, Mr. Burns, what kind of bunk is this?" He laid the letter upon his employer's desk.
"Humph!" said Burns, who was practically Dolan & Co. also. "What have you been doing?"
"Who, me? Nothing. They haven't lifted me out of the cradle yet."
"Got any relatives?"
William scratched his head and blinked ruminatively. "Nobody but an uncle in St. Louis, my mother's brother; an old crab, who got sore because mother didn't marry the flannel-mouth he'd picked out for her. Never saw him nor heard from him."
"Well, you take to-morrow morning off and look into it. If there is any money, Bill, you bring it to me. There's nothing to these lawyers. You bring it to me."
"Sure, Mr. Burns. But it's a pipe there's no dough. Maybe they expect me to settle for the funeral; that 'd be my luck."
"Maybe it's a breach-of-promise suit."
"Aw, I couldn't get into the Old Ladies' Home without a jimmy."
"Well, go and see the sharps, and then come to me. Take your mother's marriage certificate along, while you're about it. You got it?"
"Ye-ah. I was only nine when she died, but she was some mother."
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