“Glory be! What’ll he do whin he hears av this? He’s got the divil in ’im whin his timper’s up, so he have.”
“But he’s a frind av Larry’s.”
“It’s on’y worse that’ed make it.”
After Mrs. Nolan had gone, Kelly wiped the little puddles from the bar and ruminated.
“He have the divil in him,” muttered he. “Did I not see him, in this barroom, knock the padding out av t’ree av’ the ‘Chain Gang’ for callin’ his father an Orange bastard.”
The men at the table were shoving back their chairs as though about to go.
“Foley,” said the saloonkeeper, “stop a bit an’ give an eye till the bar; I want till spake till Martin. Call me iv any wan comes in.”
“All right,” said Foley. “On’y hurry up.”
Martin had a great, half raw beefsteak before him from which he was hacking bleeding strips; a newspaper was propped against the salt cruet and as he ate Martin read the doings of the sporting world.
“Arrah, don’t be botherin’ him!” cried Mrs. Kelly, as her husband entered. “Lave him ate his bit av breakfast in pace. Will ye have another cup av coffee, Martin?”