"Aw, tut, tut, tut, now, Misthress McGlone," said Malachi, his face flaming with something more than the exertion of craning his neck to peer behind the partition, "tut, tut, now, don't be goin' on like that."
But the woman, brave in the one subject upon which she could dispute the alderman, persisted:
"Shure, Mal'chi Nol'n, ye know it yersilf—shtep up here, Jamesy, an' make yer t'anks to 'im. Th' laad's a bit bashful, ye must excuse 'im, sor, he's th' best b'y ever lived, though it's mesilf says it p'hat oughtn't to."
The boy still hung back, but the old woman hitching up the shawl that was shamelessly revealing the moth-eaten waist she wore, plucked him by the sleeve, and dragged him to the rail that separated them from Malachi. The boy jerked away from his mother's grasp, yet lifted his unsteady eyes for an instant to blurt out:
"Well, I'm much obliged, see?"
And then, as if ashamed of so much politeness, he hung his head and squeezed the toe of his shoe between the spokes of the railing. The old woman folded her arms in the shawl and gazed on him with a fond smile that showed the few loose, yellow teeth
