“We all went into the library then, and Father McGrath tried to ask Margaret some questions.  I’d told him the heft of the yarn on the way from the church, and he was interested.  But the questionin’ was mighty unsatisfyin’.  Archibald was the whole team, and the rest of us was yeller dogs under the wagon.

“‘Can’t you keep that child quiet?’ asks the priest, at last, losin’ his temper and speakin’ pretty sharp.

“‘O Archie, dear!  Do be a nice boy,’ begs Margaret, for the eight hundredth time.

“‘Why don’t you punish him as he deserves?’

“’Father, dear, I can’t.  The mistress says he’s so sensitive that he has to have his own way.  I’d lose my place if I laid a hand on him.’

“‘Come on into the parlor and see the pictures, Archie,’ says I.

“‘I won’t,’ says Archibald.  ‘I’m goin’ to stay here and see the fat man make faces.’

“‘You see,’ says Sim, apologizin’ ’we can’t touch him, ’cause we promised his ma not to interfere.  And my right hand’s got cramps in the palm of it this minute,’ he adds, glarin’ at the young one.

“Father McGrath stood up and reached for his hat.  Margaret began to cry.  Archibald, dear, whooped and kicked the furniture.  And just then the front-door bell rang.

“For a minute I thought ’twas Cousin Harriet and the Holdens come back, but then I knew it was hours too early for that.  Margaret was too much upset to be fit for company, so I answered the bell myself.  And who in the world should be standin’ on the steps but that big Dempsey man, the boss of the Golconda House, where me and Simeon had been stayin’; the feller we’d spoke to that very mornin’.

“‘Good evenin’, sor,’ says he, in a voice as deep as a well.  ’I’m glad to find you to home, sor.  There’s a telegram come for you at my place,’ he says, ’and as your friend lift the address when he come for the baggage this afternoon, I brought it along to yez.  I was comin’ this way, so ‘twas no trouble.’

“‘That’s real kind of you,’ I says.  ‘Step inside a minute, won’t you?’

“So in he comes, and stands, holdin’ his shiny beaver in his hand, while I tore open the telegram envelope.  ’Twas a message from a feller I knew with the Clyde Line of steamboats.  He had found out, somehow, that we was in New York, and the telegram was an order for us to come and make him a visit.

“‘I hope it’s not bad news, sor,’ says the big chap.

“‘No, no,’ says I.  ’Not a bit of it, Mr. Dempsey.  Come on in and have a cigar, won’t you?’

“‘Thank you, sor,’ says he.  ’I’m glad it’s not the bad news.  Sure, I ax you and your friend’s pardon for bein’ so short to yez this mornin’, but I’m in that throuble lately that me timper is all but gone.’

“‘That so?’ says I.  ’Trouble’s thick in this world, ain’t it?  Me and Mr. Phinney got a case of trouble on our hands now, Mr. Dempsey, and—­’

“‘Excuse me, sor,’ he says.  ’My name’s not Dempsey.  I suppose you seen the sign with me partner’s name on it.  I only bought into the business a while ago, and the new sign’s not ready yit.  Me name is O’Shaughnessy, sor.’