He hung his dear old head, and fingered the rim of the same tall hat I knew so well, while he slowly passed it round and round between his hands. At last he spoke. His voice was all appeal; without a tone of assertion: "I decided not to go." "Why?" "The little felly." "You went aboard?" "Yis." I ventured, from intuition, "But at the last moment you felt homesick? Is that it?" He answered me over a half-turned, bashful, aged, and patient shoulder. "Yis." "So you left the boat before she sailed?" "Jist that." "And your baggage?" "It's gone—wid the boat. But—but that's no differ." Once more—never mind about the details. We had a long talk, our client and I. I learned that his wife and daughter, Tim Fennessey, too, had parted from him at his own request, a quarter of an hour before the sailing of the liner—"To have no scene," he said—and finally I learned what I could do in his behalf. It was to ease his return to his own people. "Now, sor," he said, at the close of our interview, "will you be so kind as to go before me and warn me wife?" "Tell her you changed your mind at the last moment? Is that it?" I asked. "Yis, sor, 'tis jist that." Then, he added, with the first semblance of assertiveness, "And it was me right." "Unquestionably," I answered. Then I suggested that we start on our journey, at the end of which I was to be Ambassador Extraordinary and Minister Plenipotentiary to the Royal Consort. During our walk through the almost deserted streets, where the heat of the passing day still hung in sluggish malignity, we had plenty of time for further consultation. Old O'Connor at my side, but never once in step, gave me minute instructions. "You see, sor," he said, by way of additional explanation, "the windie from me place looks to the harbor, and we can see the steamboats as they comes and goes. 'Twas all arranged the little felly should be in wan o' the windies to see me as I wint away; well, when the orf'cer o' the boat sez that all thim that wasn't intendin' to go should go back to the dock, I sez to mesilf, "_Are_ you intendin' to go?" Thin I thinks to mesilf, 'Shure some odther day will do as well and 'tis as well to wait until the little felly is big enough to go with me and see for himself,' dye moind? Wid that I walks off av the boat and comes to your offus." "Leaving your baggage on board," I added. "Yis, sor—but that's no differ—shure the duds was all new, and I care little for thim." His eagerness increased as we neared his home, down on the wharf, and above his junk-store and saloon. So our conferences came in short sentences. "I will get your baggage back," I began. "Can you do that, sor?" "Certainly. I will see the steamship company." He sighed comfortably. "Thank you, sor. 'Twill be a favor to me. But, whishper! When we reaches my place, I will shtand outside forninst the corner. Thin, do you go inside and exshplain to me wife and prepare her for me return, do ye see?"