“Mr. Amby, be quiet,” said Ned, rather complacently though, “an’ let daicent Mrs. Mulroony go on.”

“‘Well, then,’ says he, ’if you haven’t, ‘hair-soup,’ which was as much as to say—­makin’ his own fun before the strangers—­that I ought to boil my very wig to plaise him—­my front, I mane, ‘maybe,’ says he, ’you have oxtail.’  Well, flesh and blood could hardly bear that, and I said it was a scandal for him to treat an industrious, un-projected widow in such a way; ‘if you want a dinner, Mr. Gray,’ says I, ’I can give you and your friends a jacketful of honest corned beef and greens.’  Well, my dear—­”

At this insinuating expression of tenderness, old Ned, aware, for the first time, that she was a widow, and kept that most convenient of establishments, an eating-house, cocked his nightcap, with great spirit and significance, and with an attempt at a leer, which, from the force of habit, made him look upon her rather as the criminal than the accuser, he said—­“It was scandalous, Mrs. Mulroony; and it is a sad thing to be unprotected, ma’am; it’s a pity, too, to see sich a woman as you are without somebody to take care of her, and especially one that id undherstand swindlin’.  But what happened next, ma’am?”

“Why, my dear—­indeed, I owe you many thanks for your kindness—­you see, my dear,”—­the nightcap here seemed to move and erect itself instinctively—­“this fellow turns round, and says to the other four skips—­’Gentlemen,’ says he, ‘could you conde—­condescend,’ I think it was—­yes—­’could you condescend to dine upon corned beef and greens?  They said, not unless it would oblige him; and then he said it wasn’t to oblige him, but to sarve the house he did it.  So, to make a long story short, they filled themselves with my victuals, drank seven tumblers of punch each, kept playin’ cards the whole night, and then fell a fightin’—­smashed glass, delft, and everything; and when it was mornin’, slipped out, one by one, till I caught my skip here, the last of them—­”

“Scamp, Mrs. Roony; a gentleman scamp, known to every one as a most respectable character on town.”

“When I caught him going off without payment, he fairly laughed in my face, and offered to toss me.”

“Oh, the villain!” said Ned; “I only wish I had been there, Mrs. Mulroony, and you wouldn’t have wanted what I am sorry to see you do want—­a protector.  The villain, to go to toss such a woman—­to go to take such scandalous liberties!  Go on, ma’am—­go on, my dear Mrs. Mulroony.”

“Well, my dear, he offered, as I said, to toss me for it—­double or quits—­and when I wouldn’t stand that, he asked me if I would allow him to kiss it in, at so many kisses a-day; but I told him that coin wouldn’t pass wid me.”

“He’s a swindler, ma’am; no doubt of it, and you’ll never be safe till you have some one to protect you that understands swindlin’ and imposition.  Well, ma’am—­well, my dear ma’am, what next?”