“Git out wid ye, an’ look sharp, you spalpeen,” cried one of the voices.
“Oh, pray don’t—don’t fight!” cried a weak female voice.
“No, I won’t git out till I’m paid, or carry your bed away with me,” cried a man’s voice, fiercely.
“You won’t, eh! Arrah then—hup!”
The last sound, which is not describable, was immediately followed by the sudden appearance of a man, who flew down the passage as if from a projectile, and went headlong into the kennel. He was followed closely by Rooney Machowl, who dealt the man as he rose a sounding slap on the right cheek, which would certainly have tumbled him over again had it not been followed by an equally sounding slap on the left cheek, which “brought him up all standing.”
Catching sight at that moment of Mr Hazlit and Aileen, Rooney stopped short and stood confused.
“Murder!” shrieked the injured man.
“Hooray! Here’s a lark!” screamed a small street-boy.
“Go it! Plice! A skrimmage!” yelled another street-boy in an ecstasy of delight, which immediately drew to the spot the nucleus of a crowd.
Mr Hazlit was a man of promptitude. He was also a large man, as we have elsewhere said, and by no means devoid of courage. Dropping his daughter’s arm he suddenly seized the ill-used and noisy man by the neck, and thrust him almost as violently back into the green-grocer’s house as Rooney had kicked him out of it. He then said, “Go in,” to the amazed Rooney, and dragging his no less astonished child in along with him, shut and locked the door.