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"Oh, you clever little fool! how prettily you do talk on: your tongue's as tidy as your cash-book: when you've any money to put by, come to Aunt Bridget for a crock to hide it in: mayn't one use a honey-pot, as Teddy Rourke would say, barring the honey?" "Ha! and so you hide the hoard up there, aunt, eh? along with the preserves in a honey-pot, do you?"
He lived in the same neighborhood as Rourke, far out in one of those small towns on the Harlem, sheltering so many Italians, for, like a hen with a brood of chicks, Rourke kept all his Italians gathered close about him.
Came a clatter of hurrying feet, and into the low, perfumed room burst Dan Kerry, junior, tightly clasping the hand of a pale-faced, dishevelled woman in evening dress. It was Lady Rourke; and although she seemed to be in a nearly fainting condition, Dan dragged her, half running, into the room. Kerry gave one glance at the pair, then, instantly, he turned to face Zani Chada.
How dare you!" "Ah!" The long, dark eyes regarded her unmovingly. "But who are you?" "I am Lady Rourke. Open the door. You shall bitterly regret this outrage." "You are Lady Rourke?" the man repeated. "Before you speak of regrets, answer the question which I have asked: Who brought you here?" "Lou Chada." "Ah!"
A certain dare-deviltry went hand in hand with his work a calling in which a careless load dispatcher, a cut wire, or a faulty strap may mean instant death. Usually the girls laughed and called back to them or went on more quickly, the colour in their cheeks a little higher. But not Anastasia Rourke.
Ye'll be after givin' it to me, er I'll get it out of ye somehow. It's naht goin' to be ch'ated out av me money I am." "I'm owin' ye naathin'," insisted Rourke. "Ye may as well go away from here. Ye'll get naathin'. If ye waant anything more, go an' see the ahffice," and now he strode away to where the Italians were, ignoring the stranger completely and muttering something about his being drunk.
But you couldn't know that Stasia was a lady not to be trifled with. We know her name was Rourke, but he didn't. So then: "Hoo-Hoo!" he had called. "Hello, sweetheart! Wait for me and I'll be down." Stasia Rourke had lifted her face to where he perched so high above the streets. Her cheeks were five shades pinker than was their wont, which would make them border on the red.
Round and round they went like two Hopi bucks or Zulu warriors, their faces displaying the most murderous cunning and intention to slay only, instead of feathers and beads, they had on their negligible best. All the while Rourke was calling, "Come on, now! Get ready, now! I'll show ye, now! I'll fix ye, now! It's me coat ye'll rip, is it? Come on, now! Get ready! Make yerself ready!
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