O’CONNOR’S wagon had come and gone several times; a black streamer hung from the bell knob; the shutters were bowed with a ribbon of the same sombre hue. Groups of children sat upon cellar doors and talked in whispers; slatternly women stood on doorsteps, morbidly watching all who came or went at the house where old Larry lay dead. Mrs. Nolan, her head muffled in a woollen shawl, was leaning out at her kitchen window, likewise engaged, when Hogan the policeman came through the court upon his evening round. “Are yez goin’ in?” asked he, pausing. “Not the noight,” replied Mrs. Nolan, “all me bits av rags is in the wash, an’ sorra’ a t’ing have I till put on me back. Bella an’ Dick will, though, an’ mesilf will t’morry noight, plaze God.” Hogan drummed lightly upon a fireplug with his club. “It’s a Solemn High Mass they’ll be havin’,” said he. “Divil doubt it! An’ there’ll be a power av hacks at the funeral; Dick wint for wan till McGrath’s, bud they wur all spoken.” “Yez’ll not be at the Holy Cross, thin?” “Faith, yiz. We have a hack av O’Connor’s, an’ it’s go in stoyle we will.” Mrs. Nolan was looking toward Murphy’s as she spoke, and suddenly exclaimed, in a startled voice: “Who is that, Micky, that young McGonagle have be the scruff av the neck? Glory be! Is it foightin’ he’d be in front av the house where the corpse is?” A thick-set young man had staggered drunkenly up the steps of Murphy’s house, just as Goose McGonagle halted before the door. “Say Kelly,” Goose had remarked, “don’t youse t’ink ye’d better sober up a little before youse go in there?” The man on the steps swayed to and fro and regarded him with drink-reddened eyes. “Wha’s it your bizh’ness?” demanded he. “Don’t ye put yer beak in thish, McGonagle. D’ye hear?” “Put yer head to work,” advised Goose, “an’ have some sense, Murphy’s got enough trouble now wit’out youse botherin’ him, Mart.” “I’m goin’ in,” declared Martin Kelly, his thick voice raising angrily, “an’ what’s more I’m a-goin’ to lick Larry Murphy! He’s done me dirt; an’ I’m a-goin’ to do him up.” He tried to open the door, but McGonagle whirled him off the steps. “Ye ain’t a-goin’ to kick up no muss here, and that goes,” said Goose, decisively; “youse must be daffy, ain’t ye?” Kelly had just aimed a wild blow at McGonagle when Hogan pounced upon him. “So it’s yezsilf, Martin,” sneered the policeman; “it’s a great foighter yez are gittin’ to be!” “Take yer paws off a-me, Hogan,” growled the drunken youth, struggling. “Me old man’ll have youse broke for this.” “If ye don’t quit makin’ a monkey av yezsilf it’s a ride in the wagon yez’ll git.” “Take the lush away,” begged McGonagle; “he’ll have the whole bloomin’ neighbourhood up.” The expostulating Martin was hustled down the street just as Mary Carroll opened the door. “It’s on’y Mart Kelly,” Goose informed her, lifting his hat.