The boy stood staring at the apparition before him, unable to speak, then he came towards the window; Con was beckoning to him.
“What is it?” said Patsy, speaking close up to the window and in a low voice. “Go away with you, or it’s ruined I’ll be.”
“Faith, it’s worse ruined you’ll be if you don’t open the window,” replied Con’s voice, muffled by its passage through the sash. “Open the window, I want to talk to you. Where’s your respect for your uncle, you spalpeen, to keep him talkin’ to you through a closed window? Up with the sash, and not another word out of your head, or it’s I that will teach you your manners with the end of me blackthorn stick.”
Patsy, trembling all over, undid the latch. Con, as I have said before, had a great hold over him—the hold that wicked people often have over others. Patsy raised the sash, and Con thrust his ugly head into the room.
“Who told you I was here?” said Patsy, his teeth chattering, half from the effect of the cold night wind that entered, making the candle gutter in its socket, half from fear of his uncle.
“Who told me?” replied Con. “Why, who else but Micky Finnegan.”
“I might a’ known the blackguard would serve me that trick,” muttered Patsy. “Bad cess’ to him and his goose, but I’ll be even with him yet”!
Con made no reply; having glanced round the room, he was leaning now on the window-sill with his arms crossed, and his eyes fixed on his nephew with an amused and critical stare.
“Will yiz look at the buttons on him?” said he, as though he were addressing some invisible third person; “and the stripes down his legs like the side of a haddock?” Then suddenly and ferociously: “Aren’t y’ ashamed of yourself for disgracin’ your fam’ly?”
“Disgracin’ me which? Sure, what have I been doin’?” asked Patsy.