A wrinkle in the wristband here absorbed the attention of the
laundress; and, while smoothing it out, she forgot to continue what
she had been saying, but, as she once more ironed briskly upon the
sleeve, began upon a new subject.

"And it's late ye're agin, Teddy Ginniss, bad 'cess to yees! And
thin it's mesilf that should take shame for saying it; for niver a
b'y of them all is so good to his ould mother, and niver a one of
'em all that his mother's got so good a right to be proud on, as
Ted. But where is the cratur? His supper's cowld as charity wid
stannin."

At this moment a heavy step was heard upon the stairs, as of some
one climbing slowly up with a heavy burden in his arms. Mrs. Ginniss
paused to listen, holding the iron suspended over the collar she had
just smoothed ready for it.

"Murther an' all!" muttered she. "And what's the crather got wid him
anyhow? Shure an it's him; for, if it wor Jovarny with his orgin,
he'd ha' stopped below."

The heavy steps reached the top of the stairs as she spoke, and
clumped along the narrow passage to the door of Mrs. Ginniss's
garret. She was already holding it open.

"Teddy, b'y, an' is it yersilf?" asked she, peering out into the
darkness.

"Yes, mother, its meself," panted a boy's voice, as a stout young
fellow, about fifteen years old, staggered into the room, and sank