"I can hist the two of ye, John! Go along wid ye!"

"No, Kitty, darlin'--let go of it," and with a twist
of his hand and lurch of his shoulder John shot the
trunk over the edge of the wagon, tossed the bag after
it, and joined the group, the stranger absorbed in
watching the husband and wife.

"And now the trunk's in, what's it you want,
Kitty?" asked John squeezing her plump arm, as if
in compensation for having had his way.

"John, dear, here's a gentleman who--what's your
name?--ye haven't told me, or if ye did I've forgot it."

"Felix O'Day."

"Then you're Irish?"

"I am afraid I am--at least, my ancestors were."

"Afraid! Ye ought to be glad. I'm Irish, and so is
my John here, and Bobby, and Father Cruse, and Tom
McGinniss, the policeman, and the captain up at the
station-house--we're all Irish, except Otto, who is as
Dutch as sauerkraut! But where was I? Oh, yes!
Now, John, dear, this gentleman is on his uppers, he
says, and wants to hire our room and eat what we can
give him."