“I wonder, if we told him that these people were very ceremonious and very grand, if he’d consent to dine alone,” suggested Matilda.
“That would only rouse Tim, my pet,” observed Mrs. Casey. “He’d just come in on purpose then, and if he got a sup in there would be no holding him.”
“What is to be done?” cried Matilda, starting from her chair and pacing the floor with long and hasty strides.
At this moment a short, sharp double knock was heard at the hall-door.
“That’s Tim,” groaned Mrs. Casey.
“A telegraph!” roared Fogarty, bursting into the room as if a human life depended upon his celerity.
“Yer in luck, Matilda, my pet; it’s from your uncle. Read it.”
It ran thus:
“From Tim Rooney, ‘The Ram’s Tail,’ Inchanappa, County Tipperary, to Mickey Casey, 190 Merrion Street, Dublin:
“I can’t stir for a couple of days. I have to bolus a horse, and Phil Dempsey is after drinking a cow on me, the blackguard!”