"I am that." He threw back the corner of his blanket, and went through his pockets for a match.
Feeny filled his cheek with a ball of fine cut, and leaned back against the door-post. "Them was gay ol' days, if yuh believe all yuh hear."
The watchman wagged his head. "I mind the nights better thin the days," he said. "With us sittin' 'round in the dark—an' the light leakin' out av the cracks in th' ol' stove—an' the wood that was blazin' in it, stole over Grigg's back fince the night befoore. An' Duffy singin' 'Red Robin' er 'Th' Angil's Whisper.'… My, my, how Duffy cud sing. I niver heerd the bate av him."
Feeny said, absent-mindedly: "Uh-huh!" and his thoughts returned to his troubles. He heard the watchman rambling: "Niver the bate av Conny Duffy to sing—an' Butcher Sleeman to fight—till I wint at him, bare-handed, in the bunkroom, an' pounded his faytures into a mince. After that, I was 'Banty Doyle' the 'Tirror av the Tigers'—an' me two eyes blue-black fer a week."
This did not seem very important. Feeny's attention wandered. When he listened again, the old man was saying: "'Yeh 're a beauty,' Molly says to me. 'So I am,' says I. 'But I 'm a plaster cast to yer frien' Butch Sleeman,' I says. 'I come to tell yeh he won't be 'round to see yeh fer a month.' An' we wint off to Niblo's Garden, that night togither, Molly an' me."
Feeny asked: "Who was Molly?"
