“I darn't do it, sir; the committee is sittin'—don't ye see, besides, the moon lookin' at you?” And she pointed to a rude representation of a crescent moon, formed by a kind of transparency in the middle of a large window, a signal which Sandy well knew portended that the council were assembled within.
“Wha's the man, noo?” said Sandy, with one foot on the threshold.
“The ould stock still, darlint,” said Rhoudlum,—“don't ye know his voice?”
“That's Paul Donellan,—I ken him noo.”
“Be my conscience! there's no mistake. Ye can hear his screech from the Poddle to the Pigeon House when the wind's fair.”
Sandy put a shilling into the hag's hand, and, without waiting for further parley, entered the little dark hall, and turning a corner he well remembered, pressed a button and opened the door into the room where the party were assembled.
“Who the blazes are you? What brings you here?” burst from a score of rude voices together, while every hand grasped some projectile to hurl at the devoted intruder.
“Ask Paul Donellan who I am, and he'll tell ye,” said Sandy, sternly, while, with a bold contempt for the hostile demonstrations, he walked straight up to the head of the room.
The recognition on which he reckoned so confidently was not forthcoming, for the old decrepit creature who, cowering beneath the wig of some defunct chancellor, presided, stared at him with eyes bleared with age and intemperance, but seemed unable to detect him as an acquaintance.
“Holy Paul does n't know him!” said half-a-dozen together, as, in passionate indignation, they arose to resent the intrusion.