In Mike Kallaher’s kitchen—for it had suddenly become his own, after belonging for fifteen years to his wife—a poor, meek, unhappy-looking Irishwoman was obeying orders. She jumped when he yelled at her, which he did every two minutes to see her jump, begged his pardon, brought his pipe, and looked on in silence when he deliberately knocked out the ashes on the newly scrubbed floor. A man who could throw a horse out of a ditch would stop at nothing.
As the new monarch sat in his chair looking contemptuously away from his slave, who was tentatively watching him, there was a knock at the door. Mike’s chest had begun to get tired from being swelled out so far, and he let out his breath with a sigh.
A suave young man was admitted. After ascertaining that Mike Kallaher really lived in this place he asked Mike how he was feeling.
“Good,” was the truculent answer.
“No injuries from your little adventure this afternoon?”
“Injured, is it? Not a bit—not a bit.”
“I’m glad to hear that. I’m assistant manager of the Burke Construction Company. We heard one of our horses fell on you to-day, so I came down to help out if you were hurt. We thought we could afford to pay a few hundred dollars on doctor bills.” The young man smiled pleasantly. “But since you’re not hurt and are so willing to admit it, we won’t have that pleasure. Good-bye.” He got up and went.
Kallaher had forgotten to swell out his chest again. He sat drooping in his chair. His wife was no longer tentative.
“Horse heaver, is it?” She advanced, menacing. “Horse heaver? You poor mick! There goes your chance to be a cripple for life and die rich.”
She pulled his face up by the front hair and slapped him like a mother.