Maggie broke down completely, and the visitor made bold to slip an arm around her waist again.
“Ye poor choild!” he murmured, leading her toward the couch. “Do be afther sitting down, me dear. Oi’ll sit besoide yez. Rist yer head on me shoulder. There, there, don’t cry loike thot! It’ll make yer nose red.”
At this moment Tommy Tucker who had discovered one of Maggie’s hatpins beneath the couch proceeded to jab the instrument up between the springs.
“Ow! wow!” howled Patrick McGee, making an electrified spring into the air. “Bumblebees and hornets! phwat were thot?”
With one hand he industriously rubbed the spot that had been reached by the hatpin. At the same time, he danced round the room in the most grotesque manner imaginable. Maggie lowered her apron and stared at him in surprise.
“What’s the matter with you?” she asked. “Have you gone crazy?”
“It’s just a bit of neuraligy,” spluttered Patrick. “Did yez iver have it, Maggie? It’s worse thon the jumpin’ toothache. Whin it gives me a twinge loike thot Oi am liable to yell the top av me head off, so I am.”
While making this explanation he walked back to the couch and kicked beneath it in the vain hope of hitting the mischievous rascal concealed there.
“Do sit down again,” urged Maggie.
“Oi don’t dare.”