“I’m afraid—ha! ha! ha!—that it looks somewhat suspicious,” was the significant reply.
“If you mean—” Mabel began.
“I don’t mean what you mean,” laughed Harry.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“What do you mean?” he playfully retorted.
At this juncture Peter O’Brien’s shock head appeared at the open window, through which he unceremoniously thrust it, announcing, in no very delicate accents:
“The yokes is convaynient.”
“That’s a fine morning, Peter,” exclaimed Miss Hawthorne, rising and approaching the window.
“Troth, it’s that same, miss, glory be to God! It’s iligant weather intirely for the craps.”
“We’ve cut all our corn in England, Peter.”