move into a flat. “It ’s been hard times, as ye know, m’am,” he explained, “gettin’ rooms rented hereabouts since thim subways an’ tun-nels an’ all was digged. But what w’ud I be doin’ in a flat?”
Mrs. Cook attempted to cheer him by helping him to another potato cake. It distracted him at least. He split it with his knife, spread the halves with lumps of butter and closed them together on that melting secret, to absorb it tenderly.
Barney said, in the silence: “Why don’t you get about ten ton o’ coal an’ shoot it into her cellar?”
Cooney looked up from his cake. “What good ’ud that do, d’ ye think?”
“She ’d never move out an’ leave it, would she?”
“Niver!” He laid down his knife and fork. “Boy! Ye ’re a wunnder! How did y’ iver think o’ that, now?”
Barney nodded, with his eyes on his chowder, as if to say “Oh, I know a thing er two,
