'He can't do nothing',' said Bill; 'don't mind him, Mrs. Aspinall. Now then (to the push) tie up. Don't be frightened of the dorg―what are you frightened of? Why! he'd only apologise if you trod on his tail.'
The dog went under the cart, and kept his tail carefully behind him.
The policeman―he was an elderly man―stood still, looking towards the city, and over it, perhaps, and over the sea, to long years agone in Ireland when he and the boys ducked bailiffs, and resisted evictions with 'shticks,' and 'riz' sometimes, and gathered together at the rising of the moon, and did many things contrary to the peace of Gracious Majesty, its laws and constitutions, crown and dignity; as a reward for which he had helped to preserve the said peace for the best years of his life, without promotion; for he had a great aversion to running in "the boys"―which included nearly all mankind―and preferred to keep, and was most successful in keeping, the peace with no other assistance than that of his own rich fatherly brogue.
Bill took charge of two of the children; Mrs. Aspinall carried the youngest.
'Go ahead, Chinny,' said Bill. Chinny shambled forward sideways, dragging the horse, with one long, bony, short-sleeved arm stretched out behind holding the rope reins; the horse stumbled out of the gutter, and the cart seemed to pause a moment, as if undecided whether to follow or not, and then, with many rickety complaints, moved slowly and painfully up on to the level out of the gutter.
