asking those two what kind of Irish they were. Now, then, sonny,
once more. What kind of Irish is Terence Rearden?"

"Why, I don't know, I tell you. He's just Irish."

Cappy lifted his eyes to the ceiling as if praying for the great
gift of patience.

"Listen to the boy," he demanded of an imaginary bystander.
"He doesn't know! Well, stick your head down over his engine-room
grating some day, sing The Boyne Wather--and find out! Now, then,
do you happen to know what kind of Irish Mike Murphy is? You ought
to. You were shipmates with him in the _Retriever_ long enough."

"Oh, Mike's from Galway. He goes to mass on Sunday when he can."

"Hum! If he's from Galway, where did he leave his brogue? He runs
to the broad _a_ like an Englishman."

"That's easily explained. Mike left his brogue in Galway. He came
to this country when he was six years old and was raised in Boston.
That's where he picked up his broad _a_."

"That doesn't help a bit, Matt. He's Irish just the same, and what
a Yankee like you don't know about the Irish would fill a book. You
know, Matt, there are a few rare white men that can handle Chinamen
successfully; now and then you'll run across one that can handle
niggers; but I have never yet met anybody who could figure the
mental angles of the Irish except an Irishman. There's something
in an Irishman that drives him into the bandwagon. He's got to be