“They said they’d take me to a nice place, where I’d have lovely clothes, and ice-cream,” she explained. “They said I was stole when I was a baby, and you wasn’t my real mother. Say, Ma, can I go wid ’em, and Jim too?”
“You cannot,” said Mrs. Finnegan, and there was unmistakable finality in her tone. “You was not shtole when you was a baby, and what’s more, if you ever bring the likes of them in here again, I’ll wallop you. Now get out, every one of yous, before I take a shtick to yous. But let me tell you one thing first. My Rosy ain’t shtole, and never was. We’re honest people, we are, and me poor husband in his bed since Christmas, wid a cough on him that’s enough to wake the dead. I’ll tell you——”
Mrs. Finnegan paused abruptly, as the door opened, and a boy of eleven or twelve appeared on the threshold.
“Hello!” exclaimed the newcomer, staring at the trembling visitors in astonishment; “what’s the row?”
“Row,” repeated the woman, “I guess it is a row. What do you think, Jim? Them young ones come in here as bold as brass, tellin’ me to me face our Rosy was shtole when she was a baby. Did ye ever hear the like of that?”
“We didn’t say she stole her,” put in Paul. “We only said we thought she might have been stolen. She said herself perhaps she was.”
“I did not!” shrieked Rosy, in sudden terror, as her mother made a step in her direction. “It’s lies he’s tellin’, Ma.”
“Of course it’s lies. Now get along wid yous, and if I ever see one of yous hangin’ round here, you’ll get somethin’ you won’t like. Put ’em out, Jim.”
Jim advanced threateningly.
“Come on,” he ordered. “Out you goes.”