Tobin like brothers of his, and we have the segars.

"Ye must know," says the man of destiny, "that me walk in life is
one that is called the literary. I wander abroad be night seeking
idiosyncrasies in the masses and truth in the heavens above. When ye
came upon me I was in contemplation of the elevated road in conjunction
with the chief luminary of night. The rapid transit is poetry and art:
the moon but a tedious, dry body, moving by rote. But these are private
opinions, for, in the business of literature, the conditions are
reversed. 'Tis me hope to be writing a book to explain the strange
things I have discovered in life."

"Ye will put me in a book," says Tobin, disgusted; "will ye put me in a
book?"

"I will not," says the man, "for the covers will not hold ye. Not yet.
The best I can do is to enjoy ye meself, for the time is not ripe for
destroying the limitations of print. Ye would look fantastic in type.
All alone by meself must I drink this cup of joy. But, I thank ye, boys;
I am truly grateful."

"The talk of ye," says Tobin, blowing through his moustache and pounding
the table with his fist, "is an eyesore to me patience. There was good
luck promised out of the crook of your nose, but ye bear fruit like the
bang of a drum. Ye resemble, with your noise of books, the wind blowing
through a crack. Sure, now, I would be thinking the palm of me hand lied
but for the coming true of the nigger man and the blonde lady and--"

"Whist!" says the long man; "would ye be led astray by physiognomy? Me
nose will do what it can within bounds. Let us have these glasses filled