Michael woke up with a start and instantly became aware that the house was full of discordant sounds. For a minute or two he lay motionless trying to connect the noise with the present, trying to separate his faculties from the inspissate air that seemed to be throttling them. He was not yet free from the confusion of sleep, and for a few seconds he could only perceive the sound almost visibly churning the clotted darkness that was stifling him. Gradually the clamor resolved itself into the voices of Mr. Murdoch, Mrs. Murdoch and Poppy at the pitch of excitement. Nothing was intelligible except the oaths that came up in a series of explosions detached from the main din. He got out of bed and lit the gas, saw that it was one o’clock, dressed himself roughly, and opened the door of his room.
“Yes, my lad, you thought you was very clever.”
“No, I didn’t think I was clever. Now then.”
“Yes! You can spend all your money on that muck. The sauce of it. In a hansom!”
Here Poppy’s voice came in with a malignant piping sound.
“Muck yourself, you dirty old case-keeper!”
“You call me a case-keeper? What men have I ever let you bring back here?”
Mrs. Murdoch’s voice was swollen with wrath.
“You don’t know how many men I haven’t brought back. So now, you great ugly mare!” Poppy howled.
“The only fellow you’ve ever brought to my house is that one-eyed —— who calls himself my husband. Mister Murdoch! Mis-ter Murdoch! And you get out of my house in the streets where you belong. I don’t want no two-and-fours in my house.”