THE LUCK OF THE IRISH
some of this fortune, just to prove to himself that it was true. But he buttoned his coat tightly over the check and hurried for the Subway. William was patently Irish, but there must have been a strain of Scotch blood in him somewhere.
"Well?" inquired Burns, as William burst into the office an hour later. "Was it a breach-of-promise suit?"
"Ye-ah. But we settled it out of court, and here's the alimony." William flourished the check. "Say, I renig. That uncle of mine was no crab; he was pure goldfish."
"Well, I'm dinged! Nearly thirty thousand, huh? Fine work, son, fine work. And now I'm going to tell you the secret. I knew all about it. The lawyers were here pumping me, and you bet I told 'em you were a little angel. I didn't say anything, because I wanted you to get all the fun out of it. And now what are you going to do with it?"
"I was thinking maybe I could buy an interest in the firm here."
Burns scrubbed his chin. "It's a thriving shop, Bill. I wouldn't think of selling any of my interest."
"I know it's a good business. That's why I wanted to get inside," said William, regretfully.
"Say, wait a minute. Mrs. Dolan has a twenty-thousand-dollar interest. It pays her between six and seven per cent. Last winter she talked a good deal about wanting to pull out and go back to her folks in Ohio. Suppose I make a stab and see if
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