"Well, it's a long story, darlint," said Jack, teasingly, "an' I don't feel quite ekal to it on an empty stomach. I guess I'd better go over t' th' daypo restaurant an' git a snack. I ain't had nothin' t' eat since noon o' yistidday." "O' course I kept your supper hot fer ye, Jack," she assured him, softening instantly. "You go git washed an' git into some clean clothes, so you'll look a little less like a hobo, an' I'll have it on th' table in a jiffy." Mary Welsh was one of those admirable housekeepers whom no emergency finds unprepared. Jack's supper had long ago evaporated and dried up in the process of keeping it warm; even the tenderest steak, kept in an oven for seven hours, will acquire a leathery texture and a flavour of old shoes. But a fresh piece of steak was frying in a moment, and some sliced potatoes sputtering in the pan beside it; the coffee-pot was set on again, and the pantry rummaged for such supplies as it could furnish. It was some little time before Jack reappeared, for he had to change his clothes from the skin out, as well as get the mud off the skin itself. When, at last, he did come down the stairs, the meal, fresh, appetizing, and smoking hot, was awaiting him on the table. "Mary, you're a jewel," he said, as he drew up his chair, and fell to. "Yes," she observed, dryly, "I've allers heerd that th' way to a man's heart is through his stomach." "Well, I'd rather have me heart in me belly than in me pocketbook," retorted Jack. "Lucky I had on me old clothes," he added; "they'll niver be fit t' wear agin." Mary sat down opposite him expectantly. "Oh, I don't know," she said. "Mebbe I kin wash 'em an' patch 'em so's they'll be all right, Jack." "All right fer a scarecrow, mebbe, but not fer a swell like me. Now, Mary, you go ahead an' tell me all that's happened, while I finish me supper." "But there hain't anything happened t' me, Jack," she protested, filling his empty cup. "I jest stayed at home, an' seen Allan off, an' got your supper. An' then Dan Breen come an' said you'd be late. He'd seen ye git on th' accommydation an' thought mebbe you'd been called out on th' road somewheres. So I put Mamie to bed, an' then jest set an' waited. It seemed an awful long time." Jack pushed his empty plate away from him, and glanced at the clock, which was ticking merrily away on the mantelpiece. "Why, it's half-past one!" he cried, in mock amazement. "We must be gittin' t' bed, Mary. We won't want t' git up at all in th' mornin'," but Mary was not alarmed, for she saw him fumbling in his pocket for his pipe, and knew that the story would not be long delayed.