He sat down with a crabbed laugh.
“McGonagle is it!” exclaimed he. “Faith an’ there’s another wan. The toime is drawin’ on, so it is, but divil the dollar richer is he. It’s wait for me bit av money he’ll be wantin’ me till, but scure till the day will I. I’ll sell him out, the spalpeen! He do not trate me wid rayspect.”
A rattling of wheels ceased at the door, and it shook under a thundering hand.
“Spake av the divil!” remarked Ellen. She took a pitcher from the table and opened the door. “A pint,” she said.
The youth with the milk-pail dexterously dipped out the required quantity.
“Heard the news?” inquired he.
“We’ve heerd nothin’,” returned Ellen, “barrin’ that Hogan as he passed on his bate this mornin’, towld uz that his b’y Tom wur near kilt las’ noight at yez bla’gard club.”
“Ah, Hogan’s daffy! I meant did ye hear about old man Murphy a-dyin’?”
“What!” exclaimed O’Hara, his mouth full, “is owld Larry cold, thin?”
“Not yet; but he’ll die before the day’s over.” And with this the milkman threw himself and can into the wagon at the curb, and rolled down the street. Ellen closed the door and put the pitcher upon the table.