This little soliloquy brought him to the inn door. Some of the tribe of loungers who were always hanging about the door, and whom in her hatred of idleness the widow would one day rout from the place, and, in her charity, feed the next, had seen Martin coming down the street, and had given intelligence in the kitchen. As he walked in, therefore, at the open door, Meg and Jane were ready to receive him in the passage. Their looks were big with some important news. Martin soon saw that they had something to tell.
“Well, girls,” he said, as he chucked his bag and coat to Sally, “for heaven’s sake get me something to ate, for I’m starved. What’s the news at Dunmore?”
“It’s you should have the news thin,” said one, “and you just from Dublin.”
“There’s lots of news there, then; I’ll tell you when I’ve got my dinner. How’s the ould lady?” and he stepped on, as if to pass by them, upstairs.
“Stop a moment, Martin,” said Meg; “don’t be in a hurry; there’s some one there.”
“Who’s there? is it a stranger?”
“Why, then, it is, and it isn’t,” said Jane.
“But you don’t ask afther the young lady!” said her sister.
“May I be hanged thin, av’ I know what the two of ye are afther! Is there people in both the rooms? Come, girls, av’ ye’ve anything to tell, why don’t you out wid it and have done? I suppose I can go into the bed-room, at any rate?”
“Aisy, Martin, and I’ll tell you. Anty’s in the parlour.”