his disgusted stare. "He 's an Indian!" he said to the girl.
She was putting on her glove. "What 're you?" she cried. "You 're worse 'n he is—er you would n't 've stood there an' let him say things like that to me. You 're a cheap lot—the whole lot of you Maloneys."
"We are?" He studied her, with an irritating smile.
"Make fun of an ol' man," she said. "That 's your limit, I guess!"
"Say," he laughed, "you 're off your heat. That 's the whole trouble with you. You 're out of your bunch."
"Am I? Well, I 'm goin' to get out o' this bunch fast enough."
"You don't talk Gaelic," he said. "That 's what 's the matter with you. We don't mean what we say—half the time—an' when we do, we 'll take it back just as quick. Me an' Tim, now—"
"I don't want to hear about neither of you."
"Well, you can't play me off against Tim. An' you ought 've known it."
"Aw, you 're a hot-air Harp."
"I 'm a Harp, all right, but you can't string me."
She saw the father returning. "I 've met Harps before, but they were n't your sort. You 're all mouth—you an' your whole fam'ly."
Barney pretended that he had not heard, but he reddened as he turned away. He was sensitive to a criticism that deprived him of any superiority over his
