"I wasn't trying to fool you," Bradley answered; and his hand went now to the wiper's shoulder.
"Let go!" snarled Reddy. "I'll go home when I feel like it!"
Bradley's hand closed a little tighter.
"Don't make a fool of yourself, Reddy," he said gravely. "You'll——"
And that was all. MacQuigan wasn't much more than a boy, not much more than that, and hot-headed—and his chums were looking on. He freed himself from Bradley's hold—with a smash of his fist in Bradley's face.
Fight? No; there wasn't any fight. There was a laugh—from old John MacQuigan, who had been trailing the young bloods up the street. And as Bradley, after staggering back from the unexpected blow, recovered himself, Reddy MacQuigan, followed by old John, was disappearing into Faro Dave's "El Dorado" in front of him.
Bradley went home alone.
Supper was ready—it was always ready, as everything else was where little old Mrs. MacQuigan was concerned; and there were four plates on the red-checkered tablecloth—as there always were—even on pay day! Bradley sat down, with Mrs. MacQuigan opposite him.
Not much to look at—Mrs. MacQuigan. A thin, sparse little woman in a home-made black alpaca dress; the gray hair, thinning, brushed smooth across her forehead; wrinkles in the patient face, a good many of them; a hint of wistfulness in the black eyes, that weren't as bright as they used to be; not very pretty hands, they were red and lumpy around the knuckles. Not much to look at—just a little old woman, brave as God Almighty makes them—just Mrs. MacQuigan.
Bradley, uneasy, glancing at her furtively now and again, ate savagely, without relish. There wasn't much said; nothing at all about old John and young Reddy. Mrs. MacQuigan never asked a question—it was pay day.