“All right; I’m gittin’ me leathers shined,” said her son.
“Faith yez shine kin wait, an’ somethin’ ilce can’t.” Mrs. McGonagle dropped upon a salt-fish barrel, regardless, in her excitement, of what effect the brine would have upon her church-going skirt. “Run” she continued, “an’ tell Larry Murphy that his poor owld gran’father’s at death’s door an’ wants till spake till him.”
Goose stared at her incredulously.
“G’way,” said he.
“Don’t sit there starin’ at me, all as wan as a County Down peat cutter, but go at wanst! Divil another step cud I stir iv the gates av Heaven wur stan’in’ open till me!”
Within a minute after hearing the above tidings McGonagle came charging up the crooked steps leading to their lodger’s room, like a drove of mavericks.
“Git into yer rags, Murphy,” cried he, “yer wanted.”
“Is it about Kelly an’ Hogan?” asked Larry. “I ain’t no witness. I didn’t see the scrap.”
“No, it’s yer gran’father; he’s a cashin’ in, an’ wants to see youse. Me mother jist told me.”
Larry was out on the floor like a shot, pulling on his clothes and talking incoherently.