"Will ye promise not to mention me name?"

"How can I mention it when I don't know it?"

"That's thrue, that's thrue. Now me mind's aisy on that pint, for ye
must know that Boss Arnot's in'ards are made o' cast-iron, and he'd have
no marcy on a feller. You'll surely give me a dollar, at laste."

"Yes, if your story is worth printing, and I give you just three minutes
in which to tell it."

Thus pinned down, Pat related all he knew and surmised concerning
Haldane's woful predicament, saying in conclusion:

"Ye must know that this Haldane is not a poor spalpeen uv a clerk, but a
gintleman's son. They sez that his folks is as stylish and rich as the
Arnots themselves. If ye'll have a reporther up at the office in the
mornin', ye'll git the balance o' the tale."

Having received his dollar, Pat went chuckling on his way to deliver his
employer's letter to the superintendent of the city police.

"Faix! I was as wise as a sarpent in not tellin' me name, for ye niver
can thrust these iditors. It's no green Irishman that can make a dollar
after twelve o' the night."

A sleepy reporter was aroused and despatched after Pat, in order to
learn, if possible, the contents of Mr. Arnot's note.