All was now quiet in the street except for the rattle of an occasional wagon, and the faint wheeze of a broken accordion being played down the alley. A barb of yellow sunlight shot through the window and fell upon a bright lithograph of the Virgin which was tacked upon the wall near Larry’s bed. He had bought this years before and he had always kept it because he thought it looked like his dead mother. Across the room was a large photograph of Larkin in ring costume, as he had appeared just previous to his desperate battle with the champion of the sixth ward; and under this again was pasted a policy slip with three numbers underscored, commemorative of the day that same gentleman had struck the “Hard Luck Row,” at Levitsky’s policy shop, and gotten his name down upon the books of the tenth police district as a “drunk and disorderly.” “I wonder,” said Larry, his eyes dwelling soberly upon the Jewish face of the Virgin, “how the old one is?” “I saw Rosie O’Hara stan’in’ in the door last night,” returned Jimmie, “an’ she said that he was as good as gone.” “I’m sorry,” said Larry. Then catching the look which Larkin threw him, he added: “He never done nothin’ to me, sure; but when I was a kid an’ me father was a-livin’, he told me never to knock.” The plaster ceiling was seamed with cracks, discolored by the soaking through of rain. Larkin, lying on his back, thoughtfully followed the longest of these with his eye; and when he had reached its termination, he said: “If youse was in with yer gran’dad just now, Larry, ye’d come in for some o’ the gilt.” Murphy turned about with a jerk that threatened to end the cot’s unity. “I don’t want his coin; I wouldn’t make a play for it if I was flat on me uppers! I said that I was sorry for the old man, not that I would scoop his money after he was planted!” “Keep yer shirt on,” said Larkin; “I was on’y sayin’, ye know.” Mrs. McGonagle’s son, Goose, was seated upon an empty cracker box in front of Clancy’s grocery; his wagon was drawn up at the curb, and a small Italian was shining his russet leather shoes. His mother came up, panting and wheezing from her haste. “Run intill the house!” she exclaimed breathlessly. “All right; I’m gittin’ me leathers shined,” said her son. “Faith yez shine kin wait, an’ somethin’ ilce can’t.” Mrs. McGonagle dropped upon a salt-fish barrel, regardless, in her excitement, of what effect the brine would have upon her church-going skirt. “Run” she continued, “an’ tell Larry Murphy that his poor owld gran’father’s at death’s door an’ wants till spake till him.” Goose stared at her incredulously. “G’way,” said he. “Don’t sit there starin’ at me, all as wan as a County Down peat cutter, but go at wanst! Divil another step cud I stir iv the gates av Heaven wur stan’in’ open till me!” Within a minute after hearing the above tidings McGonagle came charging up the crooked steps leading to their lodger’s room, like a drove of mavericks.