Malachi O’Hara stood in his shop among his stock in trade. About him were heaped the rakings of low auction rooms and pawnbrokers’ sales; stacks of half-worn clothing lay upon the counter; the shelves were loaded with crockery, oil lamps, plaster of paris images, table cutlery, clocks, fly-specked pictures and a heterogeneous mass of battered, greasy and utterly useless articles for which it would be impossible to find names. In the window hung a banjo with two broken strings; a family Bible, its pages held open by a set of steel “knuckle dusters” lay just below, and it was garnished on all sides with old-fashioned silver watches, seal rings, black jacks and so on down the list of articles that clutter such establishments. O’Hara, a pot-bellied man, bald, broad-faced and with hard little eyes, walked back to the kitchen. “We wur talkin’ av owld Jimmie Larkin,” said Bridget putting the crockery upon the table. “Look till the sup av coffee, Ellen,” she whispered, hurriedly, “d’ye not see that it’s b’ilin’ over!” O’Hara glowered at them, angrily. “An’ it’s only startin’ yez are!” he cried. “D’ye si’ here like a pair av owld cacklin’ hens, an’ the bell just rung for Mass!” The bell had just ceased and people were still hurrying on; the red sun peeped at them from behind the church tower; the hands of the big clock reproachfully pointed out the fact that they were late. Bridget glanced through the side window. “There goes Clancy’s wife in her new silk,” said she. “It’s proud enough she’s gettin’ till be, since her husband opened the grocery.” “May the divil fly away wid Clancy’s wife an’ her silks as well! Faix an’ there do be other things that Clancy could do wid his money!” O’Hara was in a stormy mood. “Sit down till yez bit av breakfast,” soothed Ellen. “Clancy do be doin’ well an’ will pay the money he borried av ye, Malachi. It’s drink yez coffee black yez’ll have till,” she added, “for young McGonagle have not come wid the milk yet.” He sat down with a crabbed laugh. “McGonagle is it!” exclaimed he. “Faith an’ there’s another wan. The toime is drawin’ on, so it is, but divil the dollar richer is he. It’s wait for me bit av money he’ll be wantin’ me till, but scure till the day will I. I’ll sell him out, the spalpeen! He do not trate me wid rayspect.” A rattling of wheels ceased at the door, and it shook under a thundering hand. “Spake av the divil!” remarked Ellen. She took a pitcher from the table and opened the door. “A pint,” she said. The youth with the milk-pail dexterously dipped out the required quantity. “Heard the news?” inquired he. “We’ve heerd nothin’,” returned Ellen, “barrin’ that Hogan as he passed on his bate this mornin’, towld uz that his b’y Tom wur near kilt las’ noight at yez bla’gard club.” “Ah, Hogan’s daffy! I meant did ye hear about old man Murphy a-dyin’?” “What!” exclaimed O’Hara, his mouth full, “is owld Larry cold, thin?”