"Och! he's a broth of a boy!" "Why, I thought he'd broken your head, Terry?" "Phooh! that's nothing? A piece o' plaster'll set all to rights; and Terry O'Flaherty's not the boy to care for the stroke of a supple-jack. It was then, I am sure, empty. He pulled on his pants, his yellow shirt with the ridiculous horse logo, his brown socks, and shoes. Terence, meanwhile, who had followed him, did not remain silent, but recapitulated his story, for the benefit of Mrs. '—'What is it, Mint?' asked all three. I thought—the papers said——” “You thought that I was dead,” he interrupted. S.
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