“Did he say that?” said Cæsar.
“He did, though,” said Jonaique. “The ould man was listening from the kitchen-stairs, and young Ross snaked out of the house same as a cur.”
“And where's he gone to?” said Cæsar.
“Gone to the devil, I'm thinking,” said Jonaique.
“Well, he'd be good enough for him with a broken back—pity the ould man didn't break it,” said Cæsar. “But where is the wastrel now?”
“Gone to England over with to-night's packet, they're saying.”
“Praise God, from whom all blessings flow,” said Cæsar.
A grunt came out of the corner from behind a cloud of smoke. “You've your own rasons for saying so, Cæsar,” said the husky voice of Black Tom. “People were talking and talking one while there that he'd be 'bezzling somebody's daughter, as well as the ould miser's money.”
“Answer a fool according to his folly,” muttered Cæsar; and then the door jerked open, and Pete came staggering into the room. Every pipe shank was lowered in an instant, and Grannie's needles ceased to click.
Pete was still bareheaded, his face was ghastly white, and his eyes wandered, but he tried to bear himself as if nothing had happened. Smiling horribly, and nodding all round, as a man does sometimes in battle the moment the bullet strikes him, he turned to Grannie and moved his lips a little as if he thought he was saying something, though he uttered no sound. After that he took out his pipe, and rammed it with his forefinger, then picked a spill from the table, and stooped to the fire for a light.