There was a dock porter at Belfast, an intense admirer of Sir Edward
Carson, who was the retailer of one of the best of these stories. He was
always on the look-out for the leader arriving by the Liverpool steamer,
and would allow no one else, if he could help it, to handle the great
man's hand-baggage; and when Carson was not a passenger, any of his
satellites who happened to be travelling came in for vicarious
attention. Thus, it happened on one occasion that the writer, arriving
alone from Liverpool, was hailed from the shore before the boat was made
fast. "Is Sir Edward on board?" A shake of the head brought a look of
pathetic disappointment to the face of the hero-worshipper; but he was
on board before the gangway was down and busy collecting the belongings
of the leader's unworthy substitute. When laden with these and half-way
down the gangway he stopped, and, entirely careless of the fact that he
was obstructing a number of passengers impatient to land, he turned and
whispered--a whisper that might be heard thirty yards off--with a
knowing wink of the eye:

"We're getting in plenty of stuff now."

"Yes, yes," was the reply. "Never mind about that now; put those things
on a car."

But he continued, without budging from the gangway, "Och aye, we're
getting in plenty; but my God, didn't Mrs. Blank o' Dungannon bate all?
Did ye hear about her?"

"No, I never heard of Mrs. Blank of Dungannon. But do hurry along, my
good man; you're keeping back all the passengers."

"What! ye never heard o' Mrs. Blank o' Dungannon? Wait now till I tell