“Thank ye, Mister Yorke,” she ejaculated gratefully, “’tis a gentleman ye are,” she glowered a moment at the cottage, “which is more’n I kin say fur that mon o’ mine, th’ lazy good-fur-nothin’, . . . leavin’ me t’ pack all these things from th’ train!”

Like a tug drawing nigh to its mooring—­and nearly as broad in the beam—­she came to anchor on the front steps and kicked savagely at the door.  A momentary glimpse they got of Nick Lee’s face, in all its rubicund helplessness, and then the door banged to.  From an open window soon emerged the sounds as of a domestic broil.

“Talk av Home Rule, an’ ‘Th’ Voice that breathed o’er Eden’,” murmured Slavin.  “Blarney me sowl! just hark tu ut now?”

From the cottage’s interior came several high-pitched female squawks, punctuated by the ominous sounds as of violent thumps being rained upon a soft body, and suddenly the portal disgorged Lee—­in erratic haste.  His hat presently followed.  Dazedly awhile he surveyed the grinning trio of witnesses to his discomfiture; then, picking up his battered head-piece he crammed it down upon his bald cranium with a vicious, yet abject, gesture.

“Th’ missis seems onwell this mornin’,” he mumbled apologetically to Slavin, “I take it yore not a married man, Sarjint?”

“Eh?” ejaculated that worthy sharply, his levity gone on the instant.  “Who—­me?” Blankly he regarded the miserable face of his interlocutor, one huge paw of a hand softly and surreptitiously caressing its fellow, “Nay—­glory be!  I am not.”

“Har!” shrilled the Voice, its owner, fat red arms akimbo, blocking up the doorway, “Nick, me useless man! ye kin prate t’ me ‘bout arrestin’ hoboes.  I tell ye right now—­that hobo that was a-bummin’ roun’ here t’other mornin’s got nothin’ on you fur sheer, blowed-in-th’-glass laziness.”

“Fwhat?” Slavin violently contorting his grim face into a horrible semblance of persuasive gallantry edged cautiously towards the irate dame—­much the same as a rough-rider will “So, ho, now!” and sidle up to a bad horse.  “Mishtress Lee,” began he, in wheedling, dulcet tones, “fwhat mornin’ was that?”

That lady, her capacious, matronly bosom heaving with emotion, eyed him suspiciously a moment.  “Eh?” she snapped.  “Why th’ mornin’ after th’ night of racket between them two men at th’ hotel.  Th’ feller come bummin’ roun’ th’ back-door fur a hand-out—­all starved t’ death—­just before I took th’ train t’ Calgary.”  She dabbed at the false-front of red hair, which had become somewhat disarranged.  “La, la!” she murmured, “I’m all of a twitter!”

“Some hand-out tu,” remarked Slavin politely, “from th’ face av um. . . .  Fwhat was ut ye handed him, Mishtress Lee, might I ask?—­th’ flat-iron or th’ rollin’ pin?”