“Did n't ye hear him say it was Mister Joe he wanted? and there's the house he lives in,” said another.
“Yis, but he can't go up to him now,” said the man who affected to assume rule amongst them; “the one that came on the car said he was n't to be disturbed on any account.”
“Begorra,” chimed in the cripple, “if it's a levee, yer honer must wait yer turn!”
“I 'm quite willing,” said Dan, good-humoredly; “a man has no right to be impatient in the midst of such pleasant company;” and as he spoke, he seated himself on a low stone bench beside the house door, with, all the ease of one bent on being companionable.
Had MacNaghten assumed airs of haughty superiority or insolent contempt for that motley assembly, he never could have attained to the position to which the last words, carelessly uttered as they were, at once raised him. They not only pronounced him a gentleman, but a man of the world besides,—the two qualities in the very highest repute in that class by which he was surrounded. Instead, therefore, of the familiar tone they had previously used towards him, they now stood silently awaiting him to speak.
“Do the people hereabouts follow any particular trade?” asked Dan.
“'T is straw chairs principally, your honer,” replied the cripple, “is the manufacture of the place; but most of us are on the streets.”
“On the streets,—how do you mean?”
“There's Billy Glory, there yonder, he sings ballads; that man with the bit of crape round his hat hawks the papers; more of us cry things lost or stolen; and a few more lives by rows and rucktions at elections, and the like.”
“Faix! and,” sighed the strong man, “the trade isn't worth the following now. I remember when Barry O'Hara would n't walk the streets without a body-guard,—five in front, and five behind him,—and well paid they were; and I remember Hamilton Brown payin' fifty of us to keep College Green against the Government, on a great Parliament night. Ay, and we did it too!”