"Five thousand
four hundred and seventy-five days--no less." (When I reached this
skilful adoption of my calculations, I involuntarily looked up. There
sat Mr. Macartney in his rocking-chair. He was just lighting a short
pipe, but he paused in the operation to acknowledge what he evidently
believed to be my look of admiration with a nod and a wink. I read on.)
Times were cruel bad out there for a poor boy that lived by his
industry, but thank GOD he'd been spared the worst pangs of starvation
(I glanced round the pop-shop, but, as Micky himself would have said, No
matther!); and didn't it lighten his heart to hear of his dear mother
sitting content and comfortable at her own coffee-stall. It was
murderously hot in these parts, and New York--bad luck to it--was a
mighty different place from the dear old Ballywhack where he was born.
Would they ever see old Ireland again? (Here a big blot betrayed how
much Mr. Macartney had been moved by his own eloquence.) The rest of the
letter was rich with phrases both of piety and affection.
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