Mary sat down opposite him expectantly.
“Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “Mebbe I kin wash ’em an’ patch ’em so’s they’ll be all right, Jack.”
“All right fer a scarecrow, mebbe, but not fer a swell like me. Now, Mary, you go ahead an’ tell me all that’s happened, while I finish me supper.”
“But there hain’t anything happened t’ me, Jack,” she protested, filling his empty cup. "I jest stayed at home, an’ seen Allan off, an’ got your supper. An’ then Dan Breen come an’ said you’d be late. He’d seen ye git on th’ accommydation an’ thought mebbe you’d been called out on th’ road somewheres. So I put Mamie to bed, an’ then jest set an’ waited. It seemed an awful long time."
Jack pushed his empty plate away from him, and glanced at the clock, which was ticking merrily away on the mantelpiece.
“Why, it’s half-past one!” he cried, in mock amazement. “We must be gittin’ t’ bed, Mary. We won’t want t’ git up at all in th’ mornin’,” but Mary was not alarmed, for she saw him fumbling in his pocket for his pipe, and knew that the story would not be long delayed.
Nor was it. Once the pipe was started, the story started, too, and Mary listened to every word with rapt attention, only interrupting from time to time, as it progressed, with an exclamation of astonishment or anger. When he had finished, she jumped up and came around the table to him, and kissed him and hugged him and even cried over him a little, for she loved him with her whole big Irish heart.
“Why, Jack, darlint,” she cried, “you’re a reg’lar hayro—like one reads about in th’ story-books.”
“A hayro!” echoed Jack, with a roar of laughter which was promptly stilled for fear of waking Mamie. “Listen to ye! Jack Welsh a hayro!”
“You’re my hayro, anyway,” said Mary, softly, as they mounted the stairs together to their bedroom.