"The man who told you was a liar, that's all. This ain't Martin Carroll, and the sooner you take him away the better. That's what I say," declared the saloon-keeper, going back to his work. The doctor looked around in disgust. What he had to do now was to take the body to the morgue, and that revolted him. It seemed to him an insult to the dead and an outrage toward the dead man's family. Yet he had no other course of action open to him, and he was beginning to be impatient to have done with the thing. The week of hot weather had worn on his nerves also, and he wanted to be back again in the cool hospital out of the oven of the streets. As he and the driver were about to lift up the stretcher again, a man in overalls stepped up to the body and looked at it attentively. "It's Dick O'Donough!" he said at once. "Poor old Dick! It's a sad day for her--and her that excitable!" "Do you know him?" asked the doctor. "Don't I?" returned the man in overalls, a thin, elderly man, with wisps of hair beneath his chin and a shrewd, weazened face. "It's Dick O'Donough!" "But are you sure of it?" the young surgeon insisted. "We've had two mistakes already." "Sure of it?" repeated the other. "Of course I'm sure of it! Didn't I work alongside of him for five years? And isn't that the scar on him he got when the wheel broke?" And he lifted the dead man's hair and showed a cicatrix on the temple. "Very well," said the doctor. "If you are sure, where did he live?" "It's only a little way." "I'm glad of that. Can you show us?" "I can that," replied the man in overalls. "Then jump in front," said the doctor. As they started again, the driver grumbled once more. "Begorra, April Day's a fool to ye," he began. "Them parvarse gossoons, now, if I got howld of 'em, they'd know what it was hurt 'em, I'm thinkin'." The man in overalls directed them to a shabby double tenement in a side street swarming with children. There was a Chinese laundry on one side of the doorway, and on the other side a bakery. The door stood open, and the hallway was dark and dirty. "It's a sad day it'll be for Mrs. O'Donough," sighed the man in overalls. "I don't know what it is she's got, but she's very queer, now, very queer." He went into the bakery and got a man to help the driver carry up the stretcher. Women came out of the shops on both sides of the street, and leaned out of their windows with babies in their arms, and stepped out on the fire-escapes. There were banana peelings and crumpled newspapers and rubbish of one sort or another scattered in the street, and the savor of it all was unpleasant even to a man who was no stranger to the casual ward of a hospital. The man in overalls went up-stairs with the doctor, warning him where a step was broken or where a bit of the hand-rail was missing. They groped their way along the passage on the first floor and knocked.