It was almost like Christmas, that night at Jim Downey's place. The old saloon was decked out in bunting and all the regulars were in, having a singsong. And there was Jim himself passing out creamy pints, on the house, for all the world as if beer was water from the town well. "By the holy," said the men of Dun Laoghaire (Kingstown that was), "if it isn't the birthday of a strike Jim's celebratin', and his place the one that's struck." Outside the pickets paused now & then to nod to Jim's customers.
Only...
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