“Swearin’; was he? What do ye know about swearin’, plague o’ me life?” said the woman. “Till me what he said?”
“Oh, Mrs. Hogan! I couldn’t,” gasped Celia, shaking her head. “It—it’s wicked to swear.”
“You tell me——”
“I couldn’t,” repeated Celia. “But you say over all of the very baddest cuss words you know, Mrs. Hogan, and I’ll tell you when you come to ’em—jes’ what Mr. Bentley said.”
Dorothy suddenly wanted to laugh, although she was half frightened still of the ogress. Mrs. Hogan raised her hand as though to box the little girl’s ears; but then she thought better of it.
“Can ye bate that, Miss?” she demanded of Dorothy. “’Tis allus the way. The young ’un is as smart as a steel trap. ’Tis the way she be allus gittin’ the best of me.
“Well, now! ’tis not to the school ye’ll get this night, then. Ye can see that?”
“Oh, Mrs. Hogan!”
“And the stor-r-rm is bad, too. Aven with two hosses we might not win through aisy. And with only wan—Arrah! ye’ll haf ter stay the night out, Miss. I s’pose ye’ll willin’ly pay for it?”
“I am sure, Mrs. Hogan,” Dorothy said, “you will lose nothing by giving me shelter.”