“She’s no good,” put in Dan; “’n’ I’m norful hungry.”
The tears came to Dil’s eyes, though she was quite used to hearing such remarks on the little sister she loved better than her own life. Everybody seemed to consider her such a useless burthen.
“Ain’t them praties done? I could jes’ eat ’em raw,” whined Dan.
“Shet yer mug, er I’ll gev ye a swipe,” said Owen. “Ye don’t look’s if ye wos goin’ to faint this minnit.”
“You jes’ mind yer own biz, Owen Quinn;” and the little fellow swelled up with an air.
Owen made a dive, but Dan was like an eel. They were on the verge of a scrimmage when their mother entered. A tall, brawny woman, with an abundance of black hair, blue eyes, and a color that, in her girlhood, had made her the belle of her native hamlet, less than twenty years ago. A hard, weather-beaten look had settled in the lines of her face, her cheeks had an unwholesome redness, her skin had the sodden aspect that hot steam brings about, and her eyes were a little bleared by her frequent potations. Her voice was loud, and carried a covert threat in it. She cuffed the boys, produced a loaf of bread, and some roast beef bones Mrs. Collins had given her.
“It just needs a stir in the kettle, Dil, for it’s gone a bit sour; but it’ll freshen up with salt an’ some onion. How many babies?”
“Five,” answered Dil.
Just then Mrs. Gillen came flying up the stairs. She was not much beyond twenty, and still comely with youth and health and hope.
“O me darlint!” snatching up her baby with rapture, “did he want his own mammy, sure?” laughing gleefully between the kisses. “Has he fretted any, Dil?”