“I did not; though how would I know what would be the matter wid ye, lying there those three hours on your face, and not a stir out o’ ye?”

“You’re very kind,” I said, dusting the bean-dust off my trousers, and I suppose I looked a little puzzled, for the old woman (helping me by flicking at my sleeve) went on:  “I’ll not deceive ye, my dear.  It was my own Micky that was on my mind; though now you’ve lifted your face, barring the colour of his hair, there’s no likeness betwixt ye, and I’m the disappointed woman again, god help me!”

“Is Micky your son?” I asked.

“He is, and a better child woman never had, till he tired of everything I would do for him, being always the boy for a change, and went for a stowaway from this very port.”

“Sit down, Mother; stowaways are lads that hide on board ship, and get taken to sea for nothing, aren’t they?”

“They are, darlin’; but it’s not for nothing they get kept at sea, ye may take your oath.  And many’s the one that leaves this in the highest of expictations, and is glad enough to get back to it in a tattered shirt and a whole skin, and with an increase of contintment under the ways of home upon his mind.”

“And you hope Micky’ll come back, I suppose?”

“Why wouldn’t I, acushla?  Sure it was by reason o’ that I got bothered with the washin’ after me poor boy left me, from my mind being continually in the docks, instead of with the clothes.  And there I would be at the end of the week, with the Captain’s jerseys gone to old Miss Harding, and his washing no corricter than hers, though he’d more good nature in him over the accidents, and iron-moulds on the table-cloths, and pocket-handkerchers missin’, and me ruined entirely with making them good, and no thanks for it, till a good-natured sowl of a foreigner that kept a pie-shop larned me to make the coffee, and lint me the money to buy a barra, and he says:  ’Go as convanient to the ships as ye can, Mother; it’ll aise your mind.  My own heart,’ says he, laying his hand to it, ’knows what it is to have my body here, and the whole sowl of me far away.’”

“Did you pay him back?” I asked.  I spoke without thinking, and still less did I mean to be rude; but it suddenly struck me that I was young and hearty, and that it would be almost a duty to share the contents of my leather bag with this poor old woman, if there were no chance of her being able to repay the generous foreigner.

“Did I pay him back?” she screamed.  “Would I be the black-hearted thief to him that was kind to me?  Sorra bit nor sup but dry bread and water passed me lips till he had his own agin, and the heart’s blessings of owld Biddy Macartney along with it.”

I made my peace with old Biddy as well as I could, and turned the conversation back to her son.

“So you live in the docks with your coffee-barrow, Mother, that you may be sure not to miss Micky when he comes ashore?”