“‘Ere, speak out, Pete.”
“Sure, there’s no wan but you, Withers, not a wife nor a child av me own to say, ‘Poor Peter Macnamara, he is gone.”’
“There’s one,” said Henry Withers firmly. “There’s one, old pal.”
“Who’s that?” said Macnamara huskily. “Kitty.”
“She’s no wife,” said Macnamara, shaking his head. “Though she’d ha’ been that, if it hadn’t been for Mary Malone.”
“She’s mine, an’ she ‘as the marriage lines,” said Henry Withers. “An’ there’s a kid-wich ain’t mine—born six months after! ‘Oo says no kid won’t remark, ‘Poor Peter Macnamara, ‘ee is gone, wich’ee was my fader!”’
Macnamara trembled; the death-sweat dropped from his forehead as he raised himself up.
“Kitty—a kid av mine—and she married to Hinry Withers—an’ you saved me, too!—” Macnamara’s eyes were wild.
Henry Withers took his hand.
“‘Ere, it’s all right, old pal,” he said cheerfully. “What’s the kid’s name?” said Macnamara. “Peter—same as yours.”