Neither did we; although we had but few hopes of ever getting our money back. The next morning Mike was promptly at his post, and we did not hear from him until about two o'clock; I was dozing on a lounge, Fred was asleep on the counter, and Mr. Critchet was mending stockings,—about the first work that he attempted to do,—when Mike rushed frantically into the store, threw himself upon his knees, and began talking, laughing, and crying at the same moment.
"Glory to God and all the saints!" he exclaimed, after he had recovered his breath, and then he began to laugh frantically, swaying his body back and forth, as though it was an impossibility to keep still.
"It's my opinion," said Fred, without rising from his recumbent position, "that you are a little out of your head, or else you have been drinking."
"Divil a bit of whiskey have I touched for two days; but I'll have a drop now for the purpose of drinking long lives to your honors. It's me head that is affected, and well it may be. O, it's little did I think that I should come to this. Glory to God—it's plazed the old woman and the childers will be."
He made a dive at the whiskey cask, and drank a pretty stiff nipper before he could compose himself. We did not interfere, because we did not know but that the fellow might have escaped from the mine while it was caving in,—accidents of that kind happening quite frequently,—and that fright had turned his brain.
"Now, Mike, be kind enough to tell us what has happened," I said, thinking that he had mystified us long enough.
"O, such news," he exclaimed, springing upon his feet, and executing a wild sort of shuffle that would have delighted the hearts of the 'finest pisantry' in the world, had they been present, to have seen his antics.
"Well, what is the news?" I demanded, while Fred, too indolent to speak, lay upon the counter, and laughed a sleepy sort of laugh, without changing his position.
"Murderation, who would have thought of it? It's a rich man ye will be, Mike, ye lucky divil. What will the old folks say, when they bear of it? Glory to St. Patrick, but won't the boys stare, and call me Mr. Mike!"
I began to have an inkling of the man's meaning. I sprang from my seat, caught Mike by his collar, and shook him for a few seconds, until I thought that his senses were returned before I put a question.