“She's wanderin',” cried another; “she thinks she's in Coort.”
“Betty Cobbe! I say. It's me!” said my introducer, once more.
The old woman turned fiercely round, and her dimmed and glassy eyes, bloodshot from excess and passion, seemed to flare up into an angry gleam as she said, “You dirty thief! Is it you that's turnin' informer agin me,—you that I took up—out of yer mother's arms, in Green Street, when she fainted at the cutting down of yer father? Your father,” added she, “that murdered old Meredith!”
The boy, a hardened and bold-featured fellow, became lividly pale, but never spoke.
“Yes, my Lord,” continued she, still following the theme of her own wild fancies, “it's James Butterley's boy! Butterley that was hanged!” and she shook and rocked with a fiendish exultation at the exposure.
“Many of us does n't know what bekem of our fathers!” said a sly-looking, old-fashioned creature, whose height scarcely exceeded two feet, although evidently near manhood in point of age.
“Who was yours, Mickey?” cried another.
“Father Glynn, of Luke Street,” growled out the imp, with a leer.
“And yours?” said another, dragging me forward, directly in front of Betty.
“Con Cregan, of Kilbeggan,” said I, boldly.