Mrs. Clancy glanced around the kitchen of the four-room flat on the top floor of a Broome-street tenement, and wondered why Clancy didn’t come. It was almost 7 o’clock, and he “struck work” at 6. Besides, to-morrow was Christmas, and their turkey depended on Clancy’s ability to get home with his week’s pay in his pocket. She had not much confidence in this, for he had come home with an empty purse and a full bottle too many times. So Norah Clancy slipped a shawl over her head, and started down stairs. Just as she reached the door, whom should she meet but Officer Dorgan, of the 3d precinct.
“Good avenin’, Mr. Dorgan,” said Norah, her mind full of Mike’s whereabouts.
“Good avenin’, Mrs. Clancy, and could I be doin’ anything for yez?”
“Have yez seen onything of my man?” asked Norah.
Now Dorgan did know where Clancy was, but he was kind-hearted and hated to tell Mrs. Clancy that her husband was endeavoring to fill himself with bad whiskey at Casey’s gin-palace on the corner. So Dorgan told Mrs. Clancy, in a comforting way, that her man was probably on his way home, and not to worry.
With that, Mrs. Clancy started up stairs, and only stopped to slap one of “them Linkowski brats,” as she called the children of Linkowski, the Polish Jew on the third floor.
Dorgan started for Clancy when Mrs. Clancy left him, and, true to his instinct, found him trying to hold up one end of Casey’s long mahogany bar. Dorgan approached him, and began,—
“Clancy, your wife’s a-lookin’ for yez.”
Clancy turned around still clinging to the polished hand-rail, and recognized Dorgan.