Hogan drummed lightly upon a fireplug with his club. “It’s a Solemn High Mass they’ll be havin’,” said he.
“Divil doubt it! An’ there’ll be a power av hacks at the funeral; Dick wint for wan till McGrath’s, bud they wur all spoken.”
“Yez’ll not be at the Holy Cross, thin?”
“Faith, yiz. We have a hack av O’Connor’s, an’ it’s go in stoyle we will.” Mrs. Nolan was looking toward Murphy’s as she spoke, and suddenly exclaimed, in a startled voice:
“Who is that, Micky, that young McGonagle have be the scruff av the neck? Glory be! Is it foightin’ he’d be in front av the house where the corpse is?”
A thick-set young man had staggered drunkenly up the steps of Murphy’s house, just as Goose McGonagle halted before the door.
“Say Kelly,” Goose had remarked, “don’t youse t’ink ye’d better sober up a little before youse go in there?”
The man on the steps swayed to and fro and regarded him with drink-reddened eyes.
“Wha’s it your bizh’ness?” demanded he. “Don’t ye put yer beak in thish, McGonagle. D’ye hear?”
“Put yer head to work,” advised Goose, “an’ have some sense, Murphy’s got enough trouble now wit’out youse botherin’ him, Mart.”