“Huzzay!” rose the chorus.
“And three cheers for Miss Sarsfield!” called out a woman’s voice, which I fancied I recognized as my friend Mary Minnehane’s, and another “Huzzay!” arose in my honour.
Willy looked at me with a beaming face.
“Do you hear that, Theo? You see, they think a good deal of you too.”
“It’s very kind of them,” I replied, retreating precipitately into the darkness; “but I hope they don’t expect me to make a speech.”
“Masther Willy!”
I heard a hoarse whisper behind me, and, looking back, I saw that old Michael Brian had followed Willy through the gates.
“Masther Willy, aren’t you goin’ to dance with my gerr’l?”
“No, I’m not; I’m going home,” said Willy, roughly. He turned away, but Brian caught his sleeve.
“Ah! come back now and dance with her,” he said, in a part bullying, part wheedling voice; “don’t give her the go by.”