“Faith, thin, a splinter in the leg is no pleasant thing in itself.”
“A mere scratch,” said Mr. Bilkins lightly, as if he were constantly in the habit of going about with a splinter in his own leg, and found it rather agreeable. “The odd part of the matter is the man's first name. His first name was Larry.”
Margaret nodded, as one should say, There's a many Larrys in the world.
“But the oddest part of it,” continued Mr. Bilkins, in a carelessly sepulchral voice, “is the man's last name.”
Something in the tone of his voice made Margaret look at him, and something in the expression of his face caused the blood to fly from Margaret's cheek.
“The man's last name!” she repeated, wonderingly.
“Yes, his last name—O'Rourke.”
“D'ye mane it?” shrieked Margaret—“d' ye mane it? Glory to God! O worra! worra!”
“Well, Ezra,” said Mrs. Bilking, in one of those spasms of base ingratitude to which even the most perfect women are liable, “you 've made nice work of it. You might as well have knocked her down with an axe!”
“But, my dear”—