"Yis, ha! ha! bad 'cess to the loikes av yez, whoever ye may be!" the Irishman cried, fiercely, gazing in vain around the apartment, in search of the author of the laugh.
"Ho! ho! itchy, dirdty Irish!" Fritz caused a different voice to say, in a still opposite part of the room.
"No, I'm divil a wan av the likes!" the son of Erin cried, getting angry. "Bad luck to yez! ef I gits me hands on yez, it's a divil's own trouncin' you'll get, ontirely. I'll have yez know my name is Patrick Grogan, an' it's the dacent, gintlemonly son av a duke and a duchess I am, bedad."
"A son off a gun, more likely. Look out, you bloody Irish, or I vil spit on you!" Fritz caused the suspended head to say, in a hoarse, gurgling voice.
"Aha! it's spittin' on me yez'll be, eh?" the Hibernian cried, leaping from his seat, his walking-stick in hand—a formidable piece of real thorn. "Oh! you black-livered omadhaun, if I catch yez, won't I tache yez to be dacent and civil to a gintlemon!"
Then, chancing to glance upward, he saw for the first the swinging head, and in utter horror dropped upon his knees and raised his hands upward in supplication.
"Oh, holy Virgin Mary, protect me!" he howled, his terrified gaze glued upon the unsightly object. "Oh, murdtherin Maria! och, bad luck! fot have I done, Mr. Divil? shure it's nary a thing wrong I've did, nor sthalin' I've never been guilty of!"
"You vas von son-off-a-sea-cook!" came from the head.
"Yis—och, sure I'se anything yez wants, Mr. Divil! only don't be afther hurtin' the loikes av me!"
"Then arise, dirdty Irish, and climb into the attic, before the spirits come to wrap their icy clutches around you!"