Instantly there was the most extraordinary change on the countenance of the young Irishman. Billie was startled and shocked by the look of hatred which darkened his eyes and drew down the corners of his mouth.
“My home is there,” he mumbled; “but it is no longer my home. Others now occupy it.”
It is always embarrassing to surprise strangers in sudden emotions, and Billie quickly changed the subject. It would take Nancy Brown, she thought, to manage this wild Irishman, who was so quick to reveal his feelings whatever they happened to be.
“We are going to Ireland,” she said. “A friend who’s traveling with us has relatives there. Her name is Butler. Did you ever hear of that name in Ireland?”
“Butler? Sure. It’s a good name and there’s plenty of ’em left in the old country. Butlers are thick in Ireland. They’re a fine family, some rich ones and some poor ones, and none of ’em kin to each other. They’re a fightin’ lot.”
Billie laughed.
“They’re a fightin’ lot in America,” she said. “At least they are around West Haven. But you mustn’t say so to my friend. She’s very proud of her blood, and we’re making a special trip to the west coast of Ireland just to meet her cousins.”
While Billie was eating her poached eggs and breakfast bacon, her new friend had waded through his repast with amazing rapidity. As he was finishing off the last griddle cake, he was joined by an old man who reminded Billie curiously of a Shetland pony. His body was small and a thick growth of shaggy hair covered his large head and hung in his eyes. His face was rugged and strong, and his black eyes twinkled with a kind of secret amusement toward the entire world and everybody in it.
“Good morning, Feargus O’Connor. How’s your appetite? Just a bird’s, eh? Nothing but toast and tea?”
Feargus smiled placidly at the empty plates in front of him.