"What," continued aunt Kate, "what does he call this?"
"It's the thoro'bred Currah-cut, ma'am," said Bob, with one of his
peculiar glances at Mikey and the rest.
"And mighty cool wearing, I'll be bail," muttered Mikey.
"Does he call that hair-cutting?" screamed my aunt.
"That, and nothing but it," quietly retorted Bob, passing his hand over
his head; "you can't deny the cutting, ma'am."
"The young gentlemen look elegant," said Mikey.
"I'm told it's all the go, ma'am," said Bob.
"Wait!" said my aunt, with suppressed rage; "wait till I go to Kells."
This did not happen for six weeks; our aunt's anger was mollified as
our locks were once more human. Upon upbraiding "Tony Knowlan" the
murder came out. A hearty laugh ensured our pardon, and Mikey Brian's;
and the story of the "thoro'bred Currah-cut" was often told, as the
means by which "we all got a fi'penny bit a-piece."--FUSBOS.
* * * * *
There is a portrait of a person so like him, that, the other day, a
friend who called took no notice whatever of the man, further than
saying he was a good likeness, but asked the portrait to dinner, and
only found out his mistake when he went up to shake hands with it at
parting.
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