They clutched those uplifted hands and dragged them down. They grasped him about the body, around the neck, anywhere, everywhere. Howls of joy arose.
“We’ve got you!” they yelled.
Then they wrenched at his hands, one after another, as if trying to tear his arms from their sockets. Then they thumped him on the back, the shoulders, and the chest.
On the outskirts of the attacking mob one wild-eyed fellow fought like a demon to get at Merry.
“Got my vay oud of!” he roared, as he butted into the mob. “Break away! Let me got ad him!”
“Git aout!” cried another, a tall, lank chap, as he put his foot against the fat stomach of the one who was fighting to reach Merry. “Go lay daown, gol ding ye!”
“Give me a cloob!” roared one with a strong brogue of the Ould Sod. “It’s mesilf that’ll be afther makin’ a way here!”
Then he wedged his shoulder into the crowd and flung the others aside till he could get in and grasp Merry’s hand.
“Ye spalpane!” he shouted. “It’s a soight fer sore oies ye are! Begorra, Oi’m ready to die wid joy!”
“Barney Mulloy!” laughed Frank, as he wrung the hand of the honest Irish youth. “I’m delighted!”