Tobin seated himself opposite them with
some expectation.
"Since I became manager here," explained he, "I seldom hear of any of
the old lads. Ye see, it's so far from the center of the city,"
regretfully, "they seldom get along this way, so they do."
"Yes, I suppose they cling to their old haunts," said Ashton-Kirk.
"Dan sticks to his school of boxing these days, pretty closely. I
often drop in for a round or two with him. He's as clever as ever, but
he's slowing up."
Tobin shook his white head sadly.
"Tut, tut, tut," said he. "And do you tell me that! Faith, he's a
young man yet--not much over sixty--and what call have he to be takin'
on the ways and manners of age? Even as late as the last year of the
Coffin Club he was as swift as the light."
"He frequently spoke of that club to me," observed the other. "A queer
place, I understand."
Tobin nodded.
"Queer enough," he answered, "and the members was as queer in some
ways. Nothing would do them, but they must spend their time
underground, sitting at tables shaped like coffins, and drinking their
liquor out of mugs shaped like skulls. I was steward there a long
time, and got good pay; but I never approved of the notion. It always
seemed like divilment to me, did that.
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