With a well-directed kick at the prostrate form before him, and a few genial imprecations on womankind in general and his own wife in particular, he shuffled out of the house.
"He's been up to his tricks again; a beatin' of his poor wife. It's well he ain't my husband. I'd never stand it as she does, poor creature," said one of the women who were standing about.
"I don't see how you'd prevent it; but I'm going in to see whether poor Mrs. Ryan is quite done for."
Mrs. Fisher, the last speaker, left the group and entered her neighbour's house. In response to a feeble "Come in," she opened the kitchen door, which Donovan had slammed behind him. Mrs. Ryan was sitting on the floor crying bitterly.
"I'm kilt intoirely, Mrs. Fisher, an' me poor babby's frighted to death. Shure her father's a murtherin', battherin' wretch. I'll take him afore the magisthrate, I will."
"Poor thing, let me see what I can do for you," said Mrs. Fisher.
A few womanly ministrations, a cup of tea and kindly words, and Mrs. Ryan was comforted.
"Don't be thinkin' hardly uv Donovan. He's civil spoken an' kind enough whin the dhrink's out uv him; an' I'll have to put up wid his cross worruds an' his batin's, for he's me husban' an' the father uv me childer," were her parting words to her neighbour.
It was easy to be seen that Mrs. Ryan had proved no dull scholar, but had readily learned the manly logic that might is right almost as perfectly as her husband had intended that she should.
"I'll keep your children to tea, Mrs. Ryan; and, if you like, they can go with my Jimmie and Alice to some children's affair they're holding in the school-room round the corner this evening."