“Terence, my boy, well met!” he said, offering his hand.
“Hooroo! Ned Frog, sure I thought ye was in limbo!”
“You thought right, Terry; only half-an-hour out. Come along, I’ll stand you somethin’ for the sake of old times. By the way, have you done that job yet?”
“What job?”
“Why, the dynamite job, of course.”
“No, I’ve gi’n that up,” returned the Irishman with a look of contempt. “To tell you the honest truth, I don’t believe that the way to right Ireland is to blow up England. But there’s an Englishman you’ll find at the Swan an’ Anchor—a sneakin’ blackguard, as would sell his own mother for dhrink—he’ll help you if you wants to have a hand in the job. I’m off it.”
Notwithstanding this want of sympathy on that point, the two friends found that they held enough in common to induce a prolonged stay at the public-house, from which Ned finally issued rather late at night, and staggered homewards. He met no acquaintance on the way, and was about to knock at his own door when the sound of a voice within arrested him.
It was Hetty, praying. The poor wife and daughter had given up hope of his returning at so late an hour that night, and had betaken themselves to their usual refuge in distress. Ned knew the sound well, and it seemed to rouse a demon in his breast, for he raised his foot with the intention of driving in the door, when he was again arrested by another sound.
It was the voice of little Matty, who, awaking suddenly out of a terrifying dream, set up a shrieking which at once drowned all other sounds.
Ned lowered his foot, thrust his hands into his pockets, and stood gazing in a state of indecision at the broken pavement for a few minutes.