“I will, mother, but I pity you; in the meantime, I thank you, ma'am, of your advice.”
“Hycy,” she continued, with a view of changing the conversation; “did you hear that Tom M'Bride's dead?”
“No ma'am, but I expected it; when did he die?”
Before his father could reply, a fumbling was heard at the hall-door; and, the next moment, Hogan, thrust in his huge head and shoulders began to examine the lock by attempting to turn the key in it.
“Hogan, what are you about?” asked Hycy.
“I beg your pardon,” replied the ruffian; “I only wished to know if the lock wanted mendin'—that was all, Misther Hycy.”
“Begone, sirra,” said the other; “how dare you have the presumption to take such a liberty? you impudent scoundrel! Mother, you had better pay them,” he added; “give the vagabonds anything they ask, to get rid of them.”
Having dined, her worthy son mixed a tumbler of punch, and while drinking it, he amused himself, as was his custom, by singing snatches of various songs, and drumming with his fingers upon the table; whilst every now and then he could hear the tones of his mother's voice in high altercation with Hogan and his brothers. This, however, after a time, ceased, and she returned to the parlor a good deal chafed by the dispute.
“There's one thing I wonder at,” she observed, “that of all men in the neighborhood, Gerald Cavanagh would allow sich vagabonds as they an Kate Hogan is, to put in his kiln. Troth, Hycy,” she added, speaking to him in a warning and significant tone of voice, “if there wasn't something low an' mane in him, he wouldn't do it.”
“'Tis when the cup is smiling before us.
And we pledge unto our hearts—'