"'My name is James O'Reilly,
I come from Erin's sod
To sing my humble ballads
As round the world I plod.
I ask no gift from any man,
I pay my way with song.
The world is kind, and so I find
Each day I trudge along.'"
"I wouldn't call that real poetry," said Fudge critically.
"No more did he; he called it a song. Anyhow, it brought him money. If someone doesn't happen in pretty quick and give me a job of surveying I'm going to steal that song and see what I can do with it! I suppose, now, you fellows don't want any surveying done? My prices are cheap. This is bargain week."
"I'm afraid not," answered Fudge. "I guess there isn't much"
He suddenly stopped, mouth open, eyes round and glassy, and stared at his host.
"What's the matter?" asked Mr. Addicks, following Fudge's fascinated gaze. "Anything wrong with my hand?"
Fudge seemed to shake himself out of his daze. "N-n-n-no, sir!" he gulped. "Oh, n-n-no, sir! I j-j-just hap-hap-happened to th-th-think of some-something!"
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