CLANCY’S HOME-COMING.

I. W. Bishop.

{Illustrations by C. W. Berry.}

Mrs. Clancy glanced around the kitchen of the four-room flat on the top floor of a Broome-street tenement, and wondered why Clancy didn’t come. It was almost 7 o’clock, and he “struck work” at 6. Besides, to-morrow was Christmas, and their turkey depended on Clancy’s ability to get home with his week’s pay in his pocket. She had not much confidence in this, for he had come home with an empty purse and a full bottle too many times. So Norah Clancy slipped a shawl over her head, and started down stairs. Just as she reached the door, whom should she meet but Officer Dorgan, of the 3d precinct.

“Good avenin’, Mr. Dorgan,” said Norah, her mind full of Mike’s whereabouts.

“Good avenin’, Mrs. Clancy, and could I be doin’ anything for yez?”

“Have yez seen onything of my man?” asked Norah.

Now Dorgan did know where Clancy was, but he was kind-hearted and hated to tell Mrs. Clancy that her husband was endeavoring to fill himself with bad whiskey at Casey’s gin-palace on the corner. So Dorgan told Mrs. Clancy, in a comforting way, that her man was probably on his way home, and not to worry.

With that, Mrs. Clancy started up stairs, and only stopped to slap one of “them Linkowski brats,” as she called the children of Linkowski, the Polish Jew on the third floor.

Dorgan started for Clancy when Mrs. Clancy left him, and, true to his instinct, found him trying to hold up one end of Casey’s long mahogany bar. Dorgan approached him, and began,—

“Clancy, your wife’s a-lookin’ for yez.”

Clancy turned around still clinging to the polished hand-rail, and recognized Dorgan.

“What’ll yez drink?”

“Nothing, Clancy,” said the officer; “but yez better go home.”

Clancy turned around with an assumption of gravity and started for the door, for he was a little afraid of Norah.

She heard him coming, as he stumbled up the stairs, and waited for him. But as he grasped the knob of the door it opened of its own accord, and Clancy was precipitated against the kitchen table, which was set for supper. Concluding that it would be unwise to move under the existing circumstances, he remained leaning on the table and waited. He had n’t long to wait, however, for Norah began,—

“Mike, give me your money!”

He started to remonstrate, but quailed before the terrible look in her eye, and emptied his pocket on the table.

Norah counted it over.

“Three dollars an’ a half is missin’, Clancy, and yez eat cold corned-bafe to-morrer, av ye plaze.”

With this, Mrs. Clancy left the room and slammed the door.

Clancy, left to himself, sat down.

It wasn’t long before Mrs. Clancy returned, and again referred to the turkey which they would not eat on the morrow.

This was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Clancy’s manhood asserted itself, and he arose in a dignified manner and started for the door.

As he reached it he turned around and, with the air of a king bestowing a favor, said, “Mrs. Clancy, yez’ll hov that turkey.”

Clancy walked down stairs and out into the street, where he stood for a moment, irresolute.

His ideas on where to procure the turkey he had so rashly promised were very hazy, and, furthermore, he thought Mrs. Clancy had his money. As he reached his hand down into his pocket he felt something. He took it out, gazed at it contemplatively, and bit it. This seemed to satisfy his doubts. He had a quarter!

Then he considered what should be done with it. A quarter would hardly buy a turkey, and a quarter would buy considerable in the line of drink. Still thinking, he strolled down the street.

As he passed his old haunt a large white placard, with the following notice in green letters, attracted his attention:

SALOON.
RAFFLE
THERE WILL BE A
RAFFLE
FOR A CHRISTMAS TURKEY
AT THIS SALOON TO-NIGHT
25 CTS. A CHANCE.
CASEY

Clancy did not hesitate, but entered the saloon. With determination in his eye, and all the straight-forwardness that he could put into his gait, he marched up to the bar-tender and inquired about the raffle.

“Ober dere,” said the man, pointing to the other end of the room. “Dere’s anoder chance left.”

Clancy, with an eagerness born of despair, deposited his quarter and drew his ticket, No. 13. “Thot may be bad luck,” thought Clancy, “but I’m bound to win.”

Clancy waited with stoical indifference as the numbers were drawn. At last he heard some one in the front of the crowd call out, “Thirteen wins.”

Ten minutes later, Clancy marched proudly into the presence of his wife, and laid his turkey before her.

“Mike,” she said, “where did you get that turkey?” “Mike,” she said in a louder tone, “did you steal that turkey or beg it?”

Mike did not reply to the calumnies of his wife. He was asleep.