THE LUCK OF THE IRISH
all right; he was now ready for both Venus and Mars. Mars was all right; he had been born under that planet, no doubt, been scrapping as far back as he could remember. Any clairvoyant with a true eye for business could get away with that line of talk after one glance at his topknot. But this Venus stuff was to laugh; pure bunk. And, my, my! the poor simps who went to clairvoyants and believed in 'em. Ye-ah!
As he entered his room, murmuring something about "the new-mown hay for his," he sniffed the boiled cabbage. He smacked his lips over the recollection of his dinner. Nobody could cook corned beef and cabbage like Ma Hanlon.
I've often wondered if Bayard, or Quixote, or Roland ate New England dinners on Thursdays. William generally did.
At four o'clock the following afternoon William Grogan signed his name to certain documents and thereupon became a legal member of the firm of Burns, Dolan & Co.
"And now, partner, what's on the program?" asked Burns, as he and William sat down before their beer in the little saloon where Burns usually ate his lunches.
"Well," said William, after some deliberation, "I'm going to take a vacation."
"Sure. What are you going to do—go fishing?"
"Nope. I'm going around the world, Mr. Burns."
"Huh? What are you giving me?"
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