All over the brown lawn were small shacks. Some of them made of brick, some of old and weather-beaten boards, and some of these two with a smattering of very ex and sticky roofing mixed in. Father McGowan smiled. Mrs. Fry looked out of the window. Her lips tightened.
A small boy emerged from one of these affairs. Emerged on his stomach, wiggling out.
"Father McGowan," he yelled, "we got a secret passage!"
"No!" said Father McGowan enthusiastically, "No!"
Another door opened. Another boy came wiggling forth. "We got a secret place to hide things in, in ours!" he said in a sing-song, mine-is-better-than-yours tone.
"Aw——!" said the first disparagingly.
Father McGowan laughed. A boy came swaggering across the lawn. He whistled, "In My Harem." He touched his hat to the priest.
"I'm going to get a case of pop," he said loudly, "an' drink it here. Mom, she gimme a candle, and Pop sez I can stay out 'til nine." After this he was instantly the centre of an awed and admiring group.
Mrs. Fry opened the door. "The 'phone wants yuh," she said shortly to Father McGowan. Father McGowan went in with evident reluctance. He wanted to hear more of the case of pop, which he knew would narrow down to two bottles.
After he'd passed through the kitchen, Mrs. Fry spoke again to her sister who sat steaming by the stove. "He's like that," she said, a great love, yet vast contempt, showing in her tone. "He lets all the kids around build shacks in the backyard, and even gets 'em stuff to build with!"