jiffy," said Pat, backing out of the room, and glad to escape from one
whose threatening aspect seemed to forebode evil to any one within his
reach.

"He looks black enough to murther the poor young spalpeen," muttered the
Irishman, as he hastened to do his errand, remembering now with
trepidation that, though he had escaped from his master, the big,
red-faced, stout-armed wife of his bosom was still to be propitiated
after his late prowlings.

When he entered the main street, a light that glimmered from the top of
a tall building suggested how he might obtain that kind of oil which,
cast upon the domestic billows that so often raged in his fourth-floor
back room, was most effective in producing a little temporary
smoothness.

Since the weather was always fouler within his domestic haven than
without, and on this occasion threatened to be at its worst, Pat at one
time half decided not to run into port at all; but the glimmer of the
light already mentioned suggested another course.

Although the night was far spent, Pat still longed for a "wink o' slape"
before going to his work, and, in order to enjoy it, knew that he must
obtain the means of allaying the storm, which was not merely brewing,
but which, from the lateness of the hour, had long been brewed. In his
own opinion, the greenness of his native isle had long ago faded from
his mental and moral complexion, and he did not propose that any stray
dollars, which by any shrewdness or artifice could be diverted into his
pocket, should get by him.