“Yes,” she retorted, “an’ I’ll be goin’ crazy, worritin’ about ye. Where’ve ye been, Jack Welsh?”
“Niver ye mind. Is my supper ready?”
“Supper? Ye mane breakfast, don’t ye?”
“Call it what ye like, so it’s fillin’. Fer I’ve got an awful emptiness inside me. Didn’t I send ye word by Dan Breen that I’d be a little late?”
“An’ do ye call one o’clock in th’ mornin’ a little late?” she queried, with irony.
“Well,” said Jack, tranquilly, walking on through toward the kitchen, “that depends on how ye look at it. Some folks might call it a little early.”
A lamp was burning on the kitchen table, and as Jack came within its circle of light, Mary, who was close behind, saw for the first time the condition of his clothes.
“Jack!” she screamed, and rushed up to him, and then she saw the piece of court-plaster on his forehead, as well as the various minor bumps and contusions which he had received. “Have ye been fightin’?” she demanded, sternly.
“Yes, darlint,” answered Jack, cheerfully.
“An’ got hurted?” and she touched the wound tenderly.