“First rate, thank you. And I’m glad you remember my first name, anyhow.”
“Oh,” said Reddy, “the ole woman’s been so stuck up iver since ye got your promotion you’d think it was me. It’s been Mister West this an’ Mister West that, till half the time I didn’t know who she was talkin’ about. Won’t you set down?”
“Yes,” answered Allan, getting out of his coat, which Mrs. Magraw was waiting to receive. “I’ve come for a little talk. Oh, don’t send them away, Mrs. Magraw,” he added quickly, for at his words, that lady had begun to herd the children out of the room. “They won’t be in the way.”
“Yes, they will, sir,” she contradicted. “Besides, little pitchers has big ears; though if I iver caught one o’ them kids repatin’ anything ye didn’t want repated, I’d kill him, I would, an’ think it good riddance. But it’s best t’ be on the safe side, an’ they’ll be very well off in the kitchen.”
The two youngest were protesting somewhat lustily that they did not think they would be at all well off in the kitchen, and immensely preferred to remain where they could continue to gaze at the illustrious visitor; but their mother was inexorable, and banished the whole herd together.
“An’ now,” said Reddy, when that had been safely accomplished and the door was shut, “what is it?”
“You know the strike begins to-morrow?”
“Yes.”
“And you know what it’s about?”
“Yes. But I can’t hardly believe it. Neither kin anybody else who knows that drunken Rafe Bassett. It’s about him, ain’t it?”