Michael Mangan went to Belz's
grocery near the canal. He said he felt pains in his interior, and
drank a jigger of whisky. Then he bought half-a-gallon of the same
remedy to take home with him. It was a cheap prescription, costing
only twelve and a half cents, but it proved very effective. Old Belz
put the stuff into an earthenware bottle, which he corked with a
corncob. Michael started for home by the zigzag path which led up
the steep limestone bluff, but his steps were slow and unsteady; he
sat down on a rock, and took another dose out of his bottle. He
never went any further of his own motion, and we buried him next day.
We were of different opinions about the cause of his death; some
thought it was the cholera, others the pangs of conscience, some the
whisky, and others a mixture of all three; at any rate, he died
without speaking to the priest.
Next day another neighbour died, Mr. Harrigan. He had lost one arm,
but with the other he wrote a good hand, and registered deeds in the
County Court. I called to see him. He was in bed lying on his back,
his one arm outside the coverlet, his heaving chest was bare, and his
face was ghastly pale. There were six men in the room, one of whom
said:
"Do you know me, Mr. Harrigan?"
"Sure, divil a dog in Lockport but knows you, Barney," said the dying man.
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