“I wur goin’ till offer till sit up wid ye, Larry,” said he, “but as I have me job till go till in the mornin’ I mus’ git a bit av slape.” “Much obliged, all the same,” said Larry. “Larkin an’ McGonagle are goin’ to stay with me.” “I’ll be goin’ mesilf,” said Clancy, reaching for his hat. “I mus’ have me grocery open be four, be the day.” There was a general arising, putting on of hats and shaking of hands with Larry; the women had gone long before; and when the clock struck again the three watchers were nodding together beside the kitchen range. Chapter VII “_Oh they laid him away, On one bleak Winter day, An’ the sun he’ll never see more._” BALLADS OF BACK STREETS. THURSDAY morning broke clear, and before the factory whistles had done blowing, O’Connor and Roddy Ferguson had carried in the coffin, the great brass candelabra, and all the other things that went to make up O’Connor’s first-class funeral. O’Connor’s arrival was followed promptly by that of old Mrs. Sweeney, and under their practised hands things progressed rapidly; for when the clock of St. Michael’s struck the hour of nine, and then began tolling sadly, all was ready and the doors thrown open. Hacks from neighbouring livery stables began arriving and lined up at the curb, and the friends of the departed began to gather. The women went in, but the men, for the most part, collected upon the sidewalk. Frowsy-haired women stood in groups at the mouth of each alley in the block, blue faced and shivering, but anxious to miss nothing. A crowd of young men were smoking and laughing near Clancy’s coal box; the drivers of the hacks, in shabby livery coats and grotesque high hats, called to each other from their high seats. It wanted but a half hour of the time when the cortège was to move when Goose McGonagle pushed his way through the people who were crowding in at the front door; he had a band of crape about his arm and was hatless. Approaching the group at Clancy’s, he said hurriedly: “I’m goin’ to be a pall bearer, fellas, and Larry wants five o’ youse to help. Talk quick!” Nolan and McGlory promptly volunteered. “That makes three,” said Goose. “Won’t youse help to carry him, Larkin?” “Try to get somebody else,” begged Jimmie. And with a nod of his head toward the smoky grey tower from which came the doleful strokes of the bell, he added: “I don’t go there, ye know; an’ it might make talk about Larry, see? Here’s Casey an’ Mike McCarty comin’ up; give ’em a brace.” Danny Casey who worked for Contractor McGlory, and Mike McCarty, who drove a truck for Shannon, the teamster, and was considered the best-dressed young man in the ward, were promptly “braced” and gave consent. “I’ll git another one and give Ferguson yer names,” said Goose, “an’ he’ll fix youse up with gloves and crape for yer skypieces.”