There was a tramp in the street. The startled eyes studied one another. Then a shuffling and muttering, and a knock at the door.
No one stirred but Mrs. Connelly, who threw up her hands, and cried, "The saints protect us!"
"Earthly saints, Mother Connelly,—this kind," said Ben Hay with gay re-assurance, doubling his fist, and baring his brawny arm.
The pounding increased. Rose ran down stairs wild with affright, followed by her sister. The boys fortunately were asleep in the back chambers.
"Let us in, Mother Connelly: we want some bread and butter!" shouted a voice.
"Cakes and yale!"
"Pretzel and zwei lager!"
"A sup of the craythur!"
"A dhrop of whiskey to warrum us this could night! Av yees the heart av a sthone, Kit Connelly?"
A roar of laughter succeeded this.