There was a delightful absence of reserve in this young man from America. Muirisc seemed to know everything about him all at once. His name was O’Mahony, and his father had been a County-Cork man; he was a mining engineer, and had been brought over to Europe by a mining company as an expert in copper-ores and the refining of barytes; he was living at Goleen, but liked Muirisc much better, both from a miner, a logical point of view and socially; he was reckless in the expenditure of money on the cars from Goleen and back and on the hire of boatmen at Muirisc; he was filled to the top and running over with funny stories, he was a good Catholic, he took the acutest interest in all the personal narratives of the older inhabitants, and was free with his tobacco; truly a most admirable young man! He had been about Muirisc and the immediate vicinity for a week or so--breaking up an occasional rock with his hammer when he was sure people were watching him, but more often lounging about in gossip on the main street, or fishing in the harbor with a boatman who would talk--when he made in a casual way the acquaintance of O’Daly. The little old man, white-haired now, but with the blue-black shadows of clean shaving still staining high up his jaws and sunken cheeks, had come down the street, nodding briefly to such villagers as saluted him, and carrying his hands clasped at the buttons on the back of his long-tailed coat. He had heard rumors of this young miner from America, and paused now on the outskirts of a group in front of the cobbler’s shop, whom Bernard was entertaining with tales of giant salmon in the waters of Lake Superior. “Oh, this is Mr. O’Daly, I believe,” the young man had on the instant interrupted his narrative to remark. “I’m glad to meet you, sir. I’d been thinking of calling on you every day, but I know you’re a busy man, and it’s only since yesterday that I’ve felt that I had real business with you. My name’s O’Mahony, and I’m here for the South Desmond Barytes Syndicate. Probably you know the name.” The O’Daly found his wrinkled old paw being shaken warmly in the grasp of this affable young man before he had had time to be astonished. “O’Daly’s my name,” he said, hesitatingly. “And you have business with me, you said?” “I guess you’ll think so!” responded the other. “I’ve just got word from my superiors in London to go ahead, and naturally you’re the first man I want to talk with.” And then they linked arms. “Well,” said the cobbler, as they watched the receding figures of the pair, “my word, there’s more ways of killin’ a dog than chokin’ him wid butter!”