“And what’d you be doing out now?” yawned Judy.
“An arrand of the misthress;—shure, he used her disperate. Faix, it’s a wondher he didn’t murther her outright!”
“And where are ye going now?”
“Jist down to Dunmore—to the Kellys then, avich. Asy now; I’ll be telling you all bye and bye. She must be out of this intirely.”
“Is’t Miss Anty? Where’d she be going thin out of this?”
“Divil a matther where! He’d murther her, the ruffian ’av he cotched her another night in his dhrunkenness. We must git her out before he sleeps hisself right. But hurry now, I’ll be telling you all when I’m back again.”
The two crept off to the back door together, and, Judy having opened it, Biddy sallied out, on her important and good-natured mission. It was still dark, though the morning was beginning to break, as she stood, panting, at the front door of the inn. She tried to get in at the back, but the yard gates were fastened; and Jack, the ostler, did not seem to be about yet. So she gave a timid, modest knock, with the iron knocker, on the front door. A pause, and then a second knock, a little louder; another pause, and then a third; and then, as no one came, she remembered the importance of her message, and gave such a rap as a man might do, who badly wanted a glass of hot drink after travelling the whole night.
The servants had good or hardy consciences, for they slept soundly; but the widow Kelly, in her little bed-room behind the shop, well knew the sound of that knocker, and, hurrying on her slippers and her gown, she got to the door, and asked who was there.
“Is that Sally, ma’am?” said Biddy, well knowing the widow’s voice.
“No, it’s not. What is it you’re wanting?”