“Do you mean to tell me—” The O’Mahony broke in, and then was himself cut short.
“Yes, I do mean to tell you,” interrupted Bernard; “and, what’s more, she means to tell you, too, if you put on your hat and walk over to the convent.” Noting the other’s puzzled glance, he hastened on to explain: “I rowed over to your sloop, or ship, or whatever you call it, after I left you this morning, and I brought her and O’Daly back with me on purpose to tell you.”
Before The O’Mahony had mastered this confusing piece of information, much less prepared verbal comment upon it, the door was thrust open; and, ushered in, as it were, by the sharply resounding clamor of the crowd outside, the burly figure of Jerry Higgins appeared.
“For the love o’ God, yer honor,” he exclaimed, in a high fever of excitement, “come along out to ‘em! Sure they’re that mad to lay eyes on ye, they’re ’ating each other like starved lobsters in a pot! Ould Barney Driscoll’s the divil wid the dhrink in him, an’ there he is ragin’ up an’ down, wid his big brass horn for a weapon, crackin’ skulls right an’ left; an’ black Clancy’s asleep in his drum—‘t was Sheehan putt him into it neck an’ crop—an’ ’t is three constables work to howld the boys from rollin’ him round in it, an—an—”
“All right, Jerry,” said The O’Mahony; “I’ll come right along.”
He put on his hat and relighted his cigar, in slow and silent deliberation. He tarried thereafter for a moment or two with an irresolute air, looking at the smoke-rings abstractedly as he blew them into the air.
Then, with a sudden decision, he walked over and linked Bernard’s arm in his own. They went out together without a word. In fact, there was no need for words.