Such aid as he could proffer, therefore, promised little, and Dan felt more than half disposed to relinquish it. This, however, should be done with all respect to the feelings of Curtis, and, reflecting in what way the object could best be compassed, MacNaghten slowly sauntered onwards to the appointed place. It was not without some difficulty that he at last discovered the miserable lane, at the entrance to which a jaunting-car was now waiting,—a mark of aristocratic intercourse which seemed, by the degree of notice it attracted, to show that such equipages rarely visited this secluded region. MacNaghten's appearance, however, soon divided public curiosity with the vehicle, and he was followed by a ragged gathering of every age and sex, who very unceremoniously canvassed the object of his coming, and with a most laudable candor criticised his look and appearance. Although poor and wretched in the extreme, none of them asked alms, nor seemed in the slightest degree desirous of attracting attention to their own destitution.
“Is it a lodgin' yer honer wants?” whispered an old fellow on crutches, sidling close up to MacNaghten, and speaking in a confidential tone. “I 've a back room looks out on the Poddle, for two shillings a week, furnished.”
“I've the elegant place Mary Murdoch lived in for ten months, yer honer, in spite of all the polis', and might be livin' there yet, if she did n't take into her head to go to Fishamble Street playhouse one night and get arrested,” cried a one-eyed old hag, with a drummer's coat on.
“He does n't want a room,—the gentleman is n't the likes of them that comes here,” growled out a cripple, who, with the sagacity that often belongs to the maimed, seemed better to divine Dan's motives.
“You 're right, my lad; I was trying to find out where a friend of mine lived,—Mr. Curtis.”
“Faix, ould Joe has company this mornin',” said the first speaker. “It was to see him that the fat man came on the jaunting-car.”
“Are yiz goin' to try him agen?” said a red-eyed, fierce-looking woman, whose face was a mass of bruises.
“Sure the gentleman isn't a bailiff nor a polisman,” broke in the cripple, rebukingly.
“There's not a man in the Poddle won't stand up for Joe Curtis, if he needs it,” cried a powerfully built man, whose energy of manner showed that he was the leader of a party.
“Yer honer's looking for Kitty Nelligan; but she's gone,” whispered a young creature, with a baby at her breast; and her eyes overran with tears as she spoke. “She died o' Friday last,” added she, in a still fainter voice.