Martin pushed his cup toward her, over the stained table-cloth, in silence; his father sat down and watched him as he split a bake-house biscuit and covered it with butter, and then resumed his attack upon the gory steak.
“I want till tell ye somethin’, Martin,” said the father. “No hurry for Foley’s in the barroom.”
“Foley!” exclaimed Mrs. Kelly. Martin only stared.
“The cash register’ll ring if he meddles wid it,” grinned the saloonkeeper. “Never fear av Foley.”
“Divil mend ye if yez are robbed av ivery God’s blissid cint ye have, some day!” cried Mrs. Kelly, putting the steaming coffee before her son. “I’ll go out till him. Sure, I wouldn’t trust that felly wid the value av a glass av porter!”
She whisked hurriedly into the barroom, leaving father and son together.
“Good riddance,” said her husband—“yez mother talks too much at toimes, Martin; an’ I want till spake till ye privately.”
“Gee!” exclaimed the son, surprised; “what’s the caper, eh?”
Kelly spoke for a long time leaning across the table; Martin listened, his knife and fork constantly at work.
“Iv we knowed where Jimmie wur,” said Kelly, “we cud lave him know av this dirty pace av wurk. Murphy is no frind av his’n nor moine aither!”