And then he comes along, cold maybe, and smells the coffee.

'Bedad, but that's a fine smell with it,' says he, for Micky was mighty particular in his aitin' and drinkin'.

'I'll take a dhrop of that,' says he, not noticing me particular, and if ever I'd the saycret of a good cup he gets it, me consayling me face.

'What will it be ?' says he, setting down the mug, 'What would it be, Micky, from your Mother ?' says I, and I lifts me head.

Arrah, but then there's the heart's delight between us.