“Ha! ha! ha! Goodnight!”
Pete's laugh echoed through the empty market-place.
The harbour-master had seen nothing. Pete drew a long breath, followed the line of the harbour as far as to the bridge at the end of it, and then turned back through the town. He had forgotten again that he was bareheaded, and he walked down Parliament Street with a tremendous step and the air of a man to whom nothing unusual had occurred. People were standing in groups at the corner of every side street, talking eagerly, with the low hissing sound that women make when they are discussing secrets. So absorbed were they that Pete passed some of them unobserved. He caught snatches of their conversation.
“The rascal,” said one.
“Clane ruined the ould man, anyway,” said another.
“Ross Christian again,” thought Pete. But a greater secret swamped everything. Still he heard the people as he passed.
“Sarve her right, though, whatever she gets—she knew what he was.”
“Laving the child, too, the unfeeling creature.”
Then the sharp voices of the women fell on the dull consciousness of Pete like forks of lightning.
“Whisht, woman! the husband himself,” said somebody.