“Yes; I know her.”

“And why would ye be standing there with the cold pop, when there’s something better within?  Come in, me boy.  So you’re acquainted with my mother?  And how was she?”

“No, thank you, I don’t drink spirits.  Yes; your mother was well when I saw her.”

“GOD be praised!  It’s a mighty long time since I seen the ould craythur.”

“Fifteen years,” said I.

I looked at Mr. Macartney as I said it, but he had evasive eyes, and they wandered to the doorway.  No customers appeared, however, and he looked back to Dennis and Alister, but they had both folded their arms, and were watching us in silence.

“Murther and ages!” he repeated, “it doesn’t feel the half of it.”

“I fancy it seems longer, if anything, to her.  But she has been on the look-out for you every day, you see.  You’ve a good business, Mr. Macartney, so I dare say you’re a ready reckoner.  Fifteen times three hundred and sixty-five?  Five thousand four hundred and seventy-five, isn’t it?”

“It’s a fine scholar for a sailor-boy that ye are!” said Micky; and there was a touch of mischief in his eye and voice which showed that he was losing his temper.  I suppose Dennis heard it, too, for he took one bound to my side in a way that almost made me laugh to feel how ready he was for a row.  But I knew that, after all, I had no right over the man’s private affairs, warm as was my zeal for old Biddy.

“And you think I might mind my business and leave you to yours, Mr. Macartney?” I said.  “But you see your mother was very kind to me, very kind indeed; and when I left Liverpool I promised her if ever I came across you, you should hear of her, and she should hear of you.”

“And why not?” he answered in mollified tones.  “It’s mighty good-natured in ye too.  But come in, all the three of ye, and have somethin’ to eat and drink for the sake of the old country.”

We followed him into a back parlour, where there were several wooden rocking-chairs, and a strong smell of stale tobacco.  Here he busied himself in producing cold meat, a squash pie, and a bottle of whisky, and was as voluble as civil about every subject except the one I wished to talk of.  But the memory of his mother was strong upon me, and I had no intention of letting it slide.

“I’m so glad to have found you,” I said.  “I am sure you can’t have known what a trouble it has been to your mother never to have heard from you all these years.”

“Arrah!  And why should she bother herself over me?” he answered impatiently.  “Sure I never was anything but a trouble to her, worse luck!” And before I could speak again, he went on.  “But make your mind aisy, I’ll be writing to her.  Many’s the time that I’ve all but indited the letter, but I’ll do it now.  Upon me conscience, ye may dipind upon me.”

Could I depend upon his shambling conscience?  Every instinct of an honest man about me answered, No.  As he had done for fifteen years past, so he would do for fifteen years to come.  As long as he was comfortable himself, his mother would never get a line out of him.  Perhaps his voice recalled hers, but I almost fancied I could hear her as I sat there.—­“I ax your pardon, darlin’.  It was my own Micky that was on my mind.”