The old chap looked hot and excited, but not tired, and far from dejected. There was a new alertness about him, much like that you will see in an old and experienced bull-terrier, who has every reason to believe that the rat-trap is about to be opened. I watched him. [Illustration: "A proxy is a godfather or a godmother whin they are unabil to be prisint."—Page 226.] With head bent forward, and with one bunchy hand curled like a warped oyster-shell about his ear, he listened to every word. I saw him ask a man next him who was speaking. I could tell that this was his question by the effect the man's answer produced upon him. His eyebrows lowered and contracted, and from beneath them he glared at "Jarge Double-ye," while the far from pleasant grin appeared, grew, and hardened about his mouth. Meanwhile he was gradually edging his way forward, his faithful companion at his elbow, nearer and nearer to the speaker. In the general interest in Mr. Walker's remarks, few noticed the pair. At last the descendant of the last King of Ireland was in a position squarely in front of the speaker, and separated from him by the width of the directors' long table, upon which now reposed the old tall hat so familiar to me and to Mr. Cutting. The instant Mr. Walker was seated, after his speech, he of the royal blood seized his opportunity. "Mr. Prisidint," he said, firmly and clearly, depositing his large red cambric handkerchief in the hat beside him. The president bowed, saying: "You have the floor, Mr. ——. Excuse me; you are a stockholder, I suppose?" "I am, sor." I was amazed. "Your name, please." "Michael O'Connor, twinty-wan —— Wharf, junk-dealer and licensed liquor-seller." There was a slight stir of expectancy among those present. The president glanced at me, waiting for me to verify O'Connor's statement. I had run my finger down the O's in the list of names, well knowing, of course, O'Connor's was not there. I shook my head. "Your name does not seem to appear on the list, Mr. O'Connor," said the president. "Shure, I only bought me shtock this mornin', sor," replied O'Connor with a reassuring and comforting wave of the hand to the chief officer of the company. Chimmie, at his elbow still, handed him a paper from a bunch of many he held ready in his hand. O'Connor passed it up to the president, with the remark, "Here is me credintials, sor, av you plaze." That gentleman merely glanced at it, then returned it to O'Connor, and said, "A certificate of stock, I see. Did you expect to vote?" "Dthat's phwat I kem here fer," said O'Connor, with a quick nod of the head, which showed that the royal blood was stirring. Then the president explained to him that the transfer-books were closed, and that, by the by-laws of the company, nobody was allowed to vote at its meetings except such persons as were duly registered holders of its stock, or were holders of a proxy from somebody who was. [Illustration: Enter O'Connor and Chimmie.—Page 228.]