"This was all on Wednesday, I understand," said Hewitt. "Now tell me what
happened on Thursday--the poisoning, or drugging, you know?"
"Well, sor, I was walking out, an' toward the evenin' I lost mesilf. Up
comes a man, seemin'ly a sthranger, and shmacks me on the showldher. 'Why,
Mick!' sez he; 'it's Mick Leamy, I du b'lieve!'
"'I am that,' sez I, 'but you I do not know.'
"'Not know me?' sez he. 'Why, I wint to school wid ye.' An' wid that he
hauls me off to a bar, blarneyin' and minowdherin', an' orders dhrinks.
"Can ye rache me a poipe-loight?' sez he, an' I turned to get ut, but,
lookin' back suddent, there was that onblushin' thief av the warl' tippin'
a paperful of phowder stuff into me glass."
"What did you do?" Hewitt asked.
"I knocked the dhirty face av him, sor, an' can ye blame me? A mane scutt,
thryin' for to poison a well-manin' sthranger. I knocked the face av him,
an' got away home."
"Now the next misfortune?"
"Faith, that was av a sort likely to turn out the last of all misfortunes.
I wint that day to the Crystial Palace, bein' dishposed for a little
sphort, seein' as I was new to London.
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