It was plain to Big Tom that the priest knew of the trouble. "Now, who's been runnin' t' you?" he snarled. "Never seen such a buildin' for tattle tales!—Here! Set up!" (This to Cis, who wavered dizzily in her chair as the longshoreman shoved her roughly against the back of it.)
"Let me in, I tell ye!" ordered the Father, "or I'll go out and find a policeman!"
"All right! All right!"—impatiently. "Wait one minute!" Now Big Tom hastened to lift Johnnie off the table and stand the boy upon his feet.
But the moment the support of Barber's hand was taken away, Johnnie collapsed, going down to the floor in a soft, little heap, from the top of which his blue-marked face looked up sightlessly at Big Tom.
Frightened, the latter lifted the boy and laid him in the morris chair. The small, cold body, partially covered by the rags of Grandpa's old undersuit, was so white and limp that it seemed lifeless. Hastily the longshoreman threw his own coat over Johnnie, after which he swept together the several lengths of clothesline and flung them out of sight under the stove.
"Barber!"
The admitting of the priest could be put off no longer. For even as he called, Father Pat had put his shoulder to the door, so that an old panel was bending inward; next, he fell to kicking at the bottom rail with a stout shoe.
Barber gave a quick glance round the kitchen, then went to pull aside the bolt. "Hold on!" he ordered roughly; and as he swung the door open, "Nice time t' be hammerin' a man out o' his bed!"
There was another in the hall besides the Father—Mrs. Kukor, in her street clothes, and wearing her best hat. Her face looked drawn, her black eyes weary. Her hard breathing proved that she had just come up three flights instead of descending one.
As Barber caught sight of her, he thrust his big frame into the doorway, blocking it. "There she is!" he declared hotly. "The tattler! The busybody! Hidin' books for a lazy kid! Helpin' him t' waste his time! She can't come in here!"