THE CONSOLER.
And now Maggie did utter a shriek. After swaying a moment, she fell
limply into the arms of Patrick McGee, who unhesitatingly supported her.
He was a queer-looking, medium-sized man with a face which, using the
hackneyed phrase, “looked like a map of Ireland.” He had bushy eyebrows,
a fringe of chin whiskers, sand hair, and a plentiful spattering of
freckles. On finding himself clasping the limp form of Maggie, Patrick
twisted his mug into a comical expression of dismay so that Tommy
Tucker, eagerly peering forth from beneath the couch, was forced to
stuff his handkerchief into his mouth to hold back a shout of laughter.
“Howld on, howld on, mavourneen!” spluttered Pat. “Don’t yez be afther
floppin’ over loike this, me darlint.”
“Married?” choked Maggie, in the greatest anguish. “Oh, it can’t be
true!”
“Av it ain’t true, Oi’m a liar!” said McGee.
“When did this happen?” asked the girl, attempting to brace up.
“This marnin’,” was the answer. “Yer see she caught him, and he had to
marry her.”
“She caught him? Who caught him?”
“Wan of his girruls.”
“One—one of his girls?”
“Yis, my dear.”
“One of them? How many did he have?”
“Well, my dear, Oi don’t think he really knew himsilf. Wan toime he
towld me he was shpooning around some sexteen or seventeen girruls.”
Maggie popped up straight and stiff as a ramrod, flinging the visitor’s
supporting arms aside.
“Sixteen or seventeen girls?” she cried furiously. “Impossible! I can’t
believe that! You are deceiving me!”
With his hand to his chin and his head canted sidewise, Patrick McGee
gave her a look of injured reproof.
“Desaving ye, me darlint?” he said. “I wouldn’t do that for the
worruld!”
“Now hold on right where you are,” commanded Miss Swazey. “Don’t you
dare to ‘darlint’ me. Why, you scoundrel—to think of you coming around
here with such terrible inflammation and then calling me darlint! And
you tried to hug me—you know you did! There’s the door, sir!”
“A foine door it is,” said Patrick, as he closed it. “Exchuse me av Oi
forgot to shut it behoind me. Now phwats the use av gittin’ dishturbed
loike this over a little thing, Maggie, dear?”
“Maggie, dear; Maggie, dear? How do you know my name is Maggie?”
“Phwoy, me fri’nd Dinnis towld me, av course.”
“Your friend! your friend! So you shamelessly confess you’re the friend
of that deceiving monster! Oh, I wish I had him here. I wouldn’t do a
thing to him! I’d scratch his eyes out! I’d pull his carroty hair out by
the roots! The monster! Deceiving a poor trusting girl like me!”
“Hush now,” protested McGee. “Don’t be too harrud on Dinnis, the poor
bhoy. He couldn’t hilp it, you know.”
“Couldn’t help it? Couldn’t help having sixteen or seventeen girls at
the same time?”
“But ye see he was such a fascinating divvil,” whispered Pat, with a
grin and a wink. “The girruls, the darlints, wouldn’t let him alone at
all, at all. But it nearly broke poor Dinnis’ heart whin Katie nabbed
him and led him to the praste. She meant business, and there was nivver
a bit av a chance for him to escape. Whin it was all over he says to me,
says he: ‘Pathrick, I lave it to yez to break the news to me Maggie.
It’s me Maggie Oi loved most of all other girruls in all the worruld.
It’s me Maggie Oi meant to marry. Tell her, the swate crather, that me
heart do be breaking. Oi’ll nivver see her again. Oi’m done wid me job,
and ye’ve got it, Pathrick. Oi’m going to lave this city and go far away
to some foreign country. Oi think Oi shall go to New Jersey.’ Then the
poor bhoy broke down and placed his head on me breast and sprinkled me
bosom wid his tears. Exchuse me, Miss Swazey, but Oi have to wipe me
eyes.”
Not only did he wipe his eyes but he blew such a bugle blast with his
nose that Maggie was actually frightened.
Something like a smothered snicker seemed to come from some part of the
room, but Patrick coughed loudly and Maggie failed to detect the
suspicious sound. Miss Swazey was affected in spite of herself. She
began to choke and sob into her apron, which she now held before her
eyes.
“Dennis was a fine gent,” she said. “He used to bring me candy and
peanuts, and sometimes he brought me banannies and other fruit. I don’t
know what I will do without Dennis.”
At this Patrick placed his hand over his heart and lay his head sidewise
upon his own shoulder, while a sickly languishing light filled his eyes.
“Av ye’ll not take it amiss, Miss Swazey,” he murmured, “you nade nivver
go wanting for candy and peanuts and banannies as long as Pathrick McGee
remains on this bate. Av course Oi know Oi’m not such a handsome mon as
Dinnis, but Oi’ve got a heart in me bosom, Oi have. Besoides thot, not
being handsome, there’s no danger thot Oi’ll have sixteen or seventeen
other girruls. Oi’m ready to do me bist to take the place of Dinnis.”
“Oh, but I’ll never trust another man—never! never!” moaned Maggie.
“They’re all deceivers, every one of them!”
“Oi wouldn’t desave yez for the worruld,” assured the visitor earnestly.
“Just give me one trial, Maggie, me darlint. It’s awful lonesome ye’ll
be now without Dinnis to come round and tap at yer windy. Ye’ll be
afther broodin’ over yer throubles, and maybe ye’ll pine away and doie.”
“I hope I do!” sighed Maggie. “I’d like a quiet resting spot in the
cold, cold ground. If I die, perhaps Dennis would come to my grave some
time and place a flower upon it.”
“Or a bananny,” said Patrick. “But yez couldn’t ate a bananny then.”
“If Dennis could only see me in my coffin, I know he’d have remorse. I
know—boo, hoo!”
Maggie broke down completely, and the visitor made bold to slip an arm
around her waist again.
“Ye poor choild!” he murmured, leading her toward the couch. “Do be
afther sitting down, me dear. Oi’ll sit besoide yez. Rist yer head on me
shoulder. There, there, don’t cry loike thot! It’ll make yer nose red.”
At this moment Tommy Tucker who had discovered one of Maggie’s hatpins
beneath the couch proceeded to jab the instrument up between the
springs.
“Ow! wow!” howled Patrick McGee, making an electrified spring into the
air. “Bumblebees and hornets! phwat were thot?”
With one hand he industriously rubbed the spot that had been reached by
the hatpin. At the same time, he danced round the room in the most
grotesque manner imaginable. Maggie lowered her apron and stared at him
in surprise.
“What’s the matter with you?” she asked. “Have you gone crazy?”
“It’s just a bit of neuraligy,” spluttered Patrick. “Did yez iver have
it, Maggie? It’s worse thon the jumpin’ toothache. Whin it gives me a
twinge loike thot Oi am liable to yell the top av me head off, so I am.”
While making this explanation he walked back to the couch and kicked
beneath it in the vain hope of hitting the mischievous rascal concealed
there.
“Do sit down again,” urged Maggie.
“Oi don’t dare.”
“Why not?”
“Oi fear Oi’d have another attack of the neuraligy. Shtand up, me
darlint—sthand up and look into me eyes. You remind me av Kate Kearney.
Did ye iver hear of Kate Kearney?”
Then he sang:
“Oh, did yez not hear of Kate Kearney?
She lives on the banks of Killarney;
From the glance av her eye shun danger and fly,
For fatal’s the glance of Kate Kearney.”
“Oh, you’re a perfectly lovely singer!” exclaimed Maggie, rising with
clasped hands. “You have the most beautiful voice!”
“Indade Oi have,” agreed Pat. “Unfortunately thot’s the ownly thing
beautiful about me. Oi can sing loike a birrud.”
At this moment there was a slight rattling amid the pans beneath the
sink.
“Goodness me, there’s that rat again!” cried Maggie. “I’ll set the trap
for that rat this very night.”
“Oi hope ye catch him,” said Pat. “Oi wish ye’d be after telling me
whether me voice is tenor eleven.”
Once more he sang:
“O the days of the Kerry dancing,
O the ring of the poiper’s tune!
O for one of those hours av gladness,
Gone, alas! like our youth, too soon.”
“Lovely! lovely! lovely!” gushed Maggie. “A man who can sing like that
must have a beautiful disposition.”
“Oi have,” assured McGee. “Av Oi iver git married, Oi’ll trate me wife
roight. Av she cooks me meals, washes the dishes, split the wood, brings
in the coal, takes in washing, and kapes the household running dacently,
Oi’ll nivver hit her.”
At this moment there came a sudden crash from the cold closet.
“Good heavens!” cried Maggie. “What’s happened now? Has the old cat got
in there again?”
She sprang to the door and flung it open. Out rolled Bouncer Bigelow
covered from head to heels with buttermilk, a panful of which he had
upset and brought down upon his head.
“Land of wonders!” gurgled Maggie, aghast. “What was you doin’ in
there?”
“I was just looking for something to eat,” spluttered Bouncer feebly. “I
was starving to death, Maggie.”
Officer McGee promptly pounced on Bigelow.
“Ye spallpane!” he cried. “Ye thafe of the worruld, it’s a burglar ye
are! Oi place ye under arrist. Not a worrud, ye villain! Oi’ll take yez
to the station house. Ye can talk to the sargint.”
Bigelow appealed to Maggie.
“If you let him pinch me,” said he, “I’ll tell Mrs. Watson what’s going
on here in her kitchen night after night.”
Maggie grasped Patrick by the arm.
“It’s nothing, only one of the stujents that rooms in the house,” she
explained. “Do let him go.”
McGee looked doubtful.
“The scoundrel has been listenin’ to phwat we’ve been sayin’, me
darlint. He’ll be afther tillin’ on us.”
Bigelow pretended that he was very much alarmed. In Bouncer’s ear the
pseudo officer whispered:
“Come on, Big. It’s time I got out of this. I think I’ve made good, all
right.”
But as he was dragging the fat boy toward the door that door suddenly
opened and in it appeared Officer Dennis Maloney himself.