"I thought as my mother give it back to yer afore she died," he said, but a great fear took possession of his heart while he spoke.
Mrs. Finnahan pushed him from her, her red face growing purple.
"Listen to the likes of him," she said; "he tells me to me face as 'tis lies I'm afther telling. Oh, musha! but he's a black-hearted schoundrel. I must have me shilling to-morrow, young man, or out you goes."
With these words Mrs. Finnahan retired into her private apartment, slamming the door behind her.
"Tom," whispered Pat, who during this colloquy had stood by his side, "can yer give mother that 'ere shilling to-morrer?"
"Yer knows I can't," answered Tom.
"Well, she'll turn yer h'out, as sure as I'm Pat Finnahan."
"I can't help her," answered Tom, preparing once more, as well as his painful ankle would allow him, to mount the stairs.
"Yes; but I say?" continued Pat, "maybe I can do somethink."
With these words the Irish boy began fumbling violently in his pocket, and in a moment or two produced from a heterogeneous group a dull, battered shilling. This shilling he exhibited in the palm of his hand, looking up at Tom as he showed it, with an expression of pride and cunning in his small, deep-set eyes.