“Your servants are quarrelling, Mrs. Casey,” observed Mrs. Bowdler, holding up her hand to enjoin silence.
“It’s that Luke Fogarty; he can’t keep his fingers off the dishes, and the girl is—”
At this moment the individual in question burst into the apartment with an expression as if some fearful catastrophe had just happened.
“What is the matter, Fogarty?” demanded Mrs. Casey, glancing at her retainer with an inquiring eye.
“We’re bet, ma’am,” responded Fogarty in a half-whisper.
“What do you mean?”
“We’re bet up intirely. Misther Tim has came.”
Mrs. Casey felt as if she would have fainted, while Matilda bit her lips till the blood came; and as they were still gazing at each other in the direst consternation, Mr. Timothy Rooney entered the apartment, clad in a bulgy Ulster that had known fairs and markets and race-courses for several previous years, a felt hat of an essentially rakish and vulgar description, his pants shoved into his muddy boots after the fashion of a Texas ranger, while his hands were swollen and the color of beet-root.
“Company, be the hokey crikey!” he exclaimed, as he advanced to embrace the reluctant hostess. “Ah! Mary, ye didn’t expect me,” giving her a kiss that made the glass drops upon the chandelier jingle again.
“No, we didn’t expect you, Tim,” gasped his sister.