Michael snickered, but quickly changed his snicker to a cough under Reilly’s wrathful look.
“You’re right, Mr. Reilly,” he said soberly; “’t would make angels weep.”
“I’d not distress the howly wans to thot extint,” Reilly declared. He was silent a moment, then said with a brightening face: “If you’d pass a scrappy worrd wid him yersilf, Michael, and take a clip or two of his fist, belikes Kate would take pity on ye and—”
“The pity of a woman is a poor tale,” Michael replied hastily. “Has Kate taken a liking to him?”
“A liking to him, is it!” exclaimed Reilly. “She makes me fair blush for her bowldniss.”
“Then she’s given me up, and it’s no use at all,” Michael said with a groan.
“Well, if she’s given ye up, ye’ve nothing to lose by me plan,” argued Reilly. “She might take ye back.”
“And be where I was before,” objected Michael, “and that was nowhere at all, with you against me. That’s the plain word between friends, Mr. Reilly, and no harm meant.”
“But all that’s done and gone, as I told ye,” Reilly irritably replied. “I’m for ye now, Michael. ’T is her pity that’s the only way to win her now.”
“Faith! I think I’d get it,” answered Michael, dolefully; “the man’s as broad as a house.”