“Lord keep us all!” exclaimed Michael.
“’T is well said, Michael Cassidy,” replied Reilly. “’T is the bitter, true worrd.”
“But not past mending, Mr. Reilly,” Michael said with a sly glance. “’T is only to let me come back and send the lump flying.”
“Flyin’ is it?” exclaimed Reilly, wrathfully. “Faith! he flies like a tree.”
“’T is your own house,” Michael replied. “You have only to say the word go. I know how it sounds myself.”
“Have I? ’T is all ye know. I give him a couple or three hints of the same, and he was for takin’ me over his knee—me, the father of me own daughter. And what did she do but egg him on!”
“Aye, that’s bad.”
“It is so.”
“If you could manage to let him do it,” Michael said thoughtfully, “and then call the police for assault, you’d have him fine. ’T would shame Kate. ’T would be bad for him.”
“Would it?” Reilly said with scorn. “And how would it be for me in me owld age to be taken across a mon’s knee? Tell me thot.”