“She fooled ye,” he said, for Kerrigan had not found the box.
“She did,” Kerrigan agreed. He seated himself on a stool and looked about him complacently. “Ye’ve the nice little shop for wet weather,” he went on.
“For anny weather,” Reilly replied. He had suddenly become genial, and he began to talk of his work. “Thirty years I’ve worked here,” he said at the close, “and I’ve put by a little against me owld age. And now Kate will marry, and there’s wan trouble liss off me mind. Michael’s a good b’y.”
“He is,” Kerrigan agreed with great heartiness. “Did ye hear him blackguarrdun’ me to me face as bowld as ye plaze? Me hearrt warrmed to the laad.”
“Aye, and he fooled ye well; they both did,” said Reilly, and chuckled.
“They did,” answered Kerrigan. “And now I’m like a hin in a coop; but I’m not alone.”
For a moment Reilly looked at him, and then a shadow crossed his face.
“Ye take it aisy,” he said suspiciously.
“Ut’s me way,” replied Kerrigan. “I’m a sedenthary mon by nature, though I’m slightly out of practice, though ut all comes back. I’ll shmoke now.” He took his pipe from his pocket and leisurely began to fill it.
“But ye lost the girl,” Reilly told him.