THE BRASS BOWL
again. A face appeared at the apron,—Hickey's, red and moon-like and not lacking in complacency: for the man counted of profiting variously by this night's work.
"Excuse me, Mr. Maitland, 'nd"—touching the rim of his derby—"yeh, too, ma'am, f'r buttin' in"
"Hickey!" demanded Maitland suddenly, in a tone of smoldering wrath, "what the—what do you want?"
"Yeh told me tuh call round to-morrow, yeh know. When'll yeh be in?"
"I'll leave a note for you with O'Hagan. Is that all?"
"Yep—that is, there's somethin' else. …"
"Well?"
"Excuse me for mentionin' it, but I didn't know—it ain't generally known, yeh know, 'nd one uh th' boys might've heard me speak tuh yer lady by name 'nd might pass it on to a reporter. What I mean's this," hastily, as the Maitland temper showed dangerous indications of going into active eruption:
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