Cakey was a London pickpocket of the most pronounced type, and he it was who had suborned the ill-fated young Irish lad and taught him to become a thief. (So his mother affirmed.)
She set up such a howl that the other prisoners could not hear what their relatives had to say.
“Now then, less noise there,” exclaimed one of the turnkeys. “Don’t be howling like that, woman.”
“Oh, bedad, it is meself as is the most miserable ’oman as ever broke the bread of life,” exclaimed Mrs. O’Grady, “and it is well for the likes of you to be bullyragging a poor broken-hearted mother. I’ve six childhre, and never a one av ’em iver done aught as they need be ashamed of—never a one, save my poor Dinnis, and may be he’s got into a bit o’ throuble through that lying, dirty scamp, “Cakey.”
Cakey, as he was termed, was the young gentleman who had made himself so obnoxious to Peace in the exercise yard.
“Hold your row, mother,” said one of the prisoners, “You aint everybody.”
“There now,” exclaimed Mrs. O’Grady. “It’s well for the likes of him to be thryin’ to stop the mouth of a fond and affectionats parent; but hold up your head, Dennis darlin’, and don’t be afther takin’ heed of the dirty spalpeen. Och, but it brings tears into my motherly eyes to see ye behind the bars.”
“Now, then, there’s quite enough of this,” exclaimed one of the warders. “You mustn’t make such a noise. If you are not more quiet, we shall have to turn you out.”
“An’ it’s turnin’ me out ye’d be afther—would it?” cried the woman.
“Yes, unless you behave yourself.”