“Jawn,” said Mrs. McCaskey, softly, “I’m sorry I was hasty wid ye.”
“’Twas hasty puddin’, as ye say,” said her husband, “and hurry-up turnips and get-a-move-on-ye-coffee. ’Twas what ye could call a quick lunch, all right, and tell no lie.”
Mrs. McCaskey slipped her arm inside her husband’s and took his rough hand in hers.
“Listen at the cryin’ of poor Mrs. Murphy,” she said. “’Tis an awful thing for a bit of a bye to be lost in this great big city. If ’twas our little Phelan, Jawn, I’d be breakin’ me heart.”
Awkwardly Mr. McCaskey withdrew his hand. But he laid it around the nearing shoulders of his wife.
“’Tis foolishness, of course,” said he, roughly, “but I’d be cut up some meself if our little—Pat was kidnapped or anything. But there never was any childer for us. Sometimes I’ve been ugly and hard with ye, Judy. Forget it.”
They leaned together, and looked down at the heart-drama being acted below.
Long they sat thus. People surged along the sidewalk, crowding, questioning, filling the air with rumours, and inconsequent surmises. Mrs. Murphy ploughed back and forth in their midst, like a soft
[44]
