“I will take boxing lessons and physical culture of your brother, Bridget. You think he can build me up? I know I’m a bit run down. No exercise, you know. Still, I believe I would have thrashed him to a frazzle if I hadn’t stumbled. That was when he kicked me here. I got this falling against the table.”
“Yis, sor,” said Bridget, dutifully.
In response to the pounding on the door, he called out, bravely:—
“You can’t come in now, Phoebe. Papa has hurt himself a little bit. I’ll come out soon.”
“I got my Sunday dress on, daddy,” cried the childish voice. “And I’m all spruced up. Has the nice gentleman gone away?”
His head sank into his hands.
“Yes, dearie, he’s gone,” he replied, in muffled tones.