“I must hurry home,” said she, “an’ waken Larry.”
“Is he still in bed?” cried Ellen.
“Do he not go till Mass?” cried Bridget.
“Why, not very often,” admitted Mrs. McGonagle, reluctantly. “He an’ Jimmie Larkin slapes till a’most dinner toime ivery Sunday. But Larry’s a daysint b’y for all that. Good day till yez.” And with that the good little woman bolted into the street and went sailing toward McGarragles’ Alley, her bright shawl fluttering in the breeze.
The two old crones clawed mystic signs in the air over the spot where their visitor had lately stood and began muttering in Gaelic. O’Hara was brushing his Sunday high hat with the sleeve of his coat and paused as he caught the words.
“What humbuggin’ are yez at now?” demanded he.
“Would yez be after lettin’ the curse stay in the house?” cried Bridget.
“Sure, she hav the evil eye!” asserted Ellen.
O’Hara regarded them fixedly for a moment; then with a snort he put on his hat, took his black-thorn stick from behind the door, and started off for church.