"It's not me, but another man that's been dhrinkin'."

"Well," snarled the editor, "if the other man had the drink, you have
the 'drunk,' and if you don't take yourself off, I'll call some men from
the press-room who may put you downstairs uncomfortably fast."

"Hould on a bit," remonstrated Pat, "before yer ruffle yer feathers
clane over yer head and blinds yer eyes. Wud a man loike Boss Arnot send
me, if I was dhrunk, wid a letther at this toime o' night? and wud he
send a letther to the superintindent o' the perlice at this toime o' the
night to ax him the toime o' day! Afore yer calls yer spalpeens out o'
the press-room squint at that."

The moment the editor caught sight of the business stamp on Mr. Arnot's
letter and the formal handwriting, his manner changed, and he said
suavely:

"I beg your pardon--we have misunderstood one another--take a chair."

"There's been no misunderstandin' on my part," retorted Pat, with an
injured air; "I've got as dainty a bit o' scandal jist under me tongue
as iver ye spiced yer paper wid, and yees thrates me as if I was the
inimy o' yer sowl."

"Well, you see," said the editor apologetically, "your not being in our
regular employ, Mr.--I beg your pardon--and your coming in this unusual
way and hour--"

"But, begorry, somethin' unusual's happened."