AN IRISH STRIKE 



back in finding no porters available for our many boxes. 

 But the stalwart man of the party made " no bones/' as 

 they would say, about shouldering them himself, and this 

 was accomplished amid the unstinted enthusiasm of the 

 "jarvies." He was aided <save the mark) by the only 

 faithful porter, as old as Pantaloon, who quivered and 

 quavered behind him. A further occasion for cheers. 

 " Ah, will ye look at the gintleman ! To think of the likes 

 of him now, being put to carry the thrunks! Isn't it 

 ashamed of themselves they ought to be! Well done, 

 Larry, it is a grand old boy ye are ! Let me get a hould 

 of the box, yer honour. Oh, begorra, isn't it the stringth 

 of ten ye do be having. . . ." 



" And how do ye like Dublin now, Mr. Smith ? " we heard a 

 pretty Irish girl saying to a stalwart young British soldier 

 on the platform. 



He was grinning down at her in stolid admiration. She 

 herself had dove-like eyes and a dove-like cooing voice. 

 We think he liked Dublin very much indeed. 

 It was the laughing face behind the mask of tragedy. 



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