“Ain’t you ashamed of yourself to trate your old father so manely?” demanded Mrs. Hogan, indignantly.
“Give me the money, father, and I’ll go,” said Barclay, thinking it politic to get away as soon as possible.
“Take him away!” said old Jerry, feebly.
“I’ll do it!” responded Mrs. Hogan. “I’ll tache him, the murtherin’ thafe!”
She suited the action to the word, and dashed the scalding hot water into the face of James Barclay.
He uttered a hoarse cry of mingled rage and pain, and, leaving his father, dashed after his bold assailant.
He was partially blinded, however, by the pain, and she easily escaped.
Scarcely knowing where he went, he ran against an athletic, broad shouldered man, who was bringing up a basket of coal.
“O, that’s your game, is it?” said the newcomer, fancying the assault intentional. “I don’t know who you are, but I’ll give ye all ye want. No man can hit Dennis O’Brien widout gettin’ as good as he gives.”