Лучшие рассказы О. Генри = The Best of O. Henry

“Think of that dear little babe,” said Miss Purdy, “lost from his mother’s side – perhaps already fallen beneath the iron hoofs of galloping steeds – oh, isn’t it dreadful?”

“Ain’t that right?” agreed Mr. Toomey, squeezing her hand. “Say I start out and help look for um!”

“Perhaps,” said Miss Purdy, “you should. But, oh, Mr. Toomey, you are so dashing – so reckless – suppose in your enthusiasm some accident should befall you, then what —”

Old man Denny read on about the arbitration agreement, with one finger on the lines.

In the second floor front Mr. and Mrs. McCaskey came to the window to recover their second wind. Mr. McCaskey was scooping turnips out of his vest with a crooked forefinger, and his lady was wiping an eye that the salt of the roast pork had not benefited. They heard the outcry below, and thrust their heads out of the window.

“’Tis little Mike is lost,” said Mrs. McCaskey, in a hushed voice, “the beautiful, little, trouble-making angel of a gossoon!”

“The bit of a boy mislaid?” said Mr.

McCaskey, leaning out of the window. “Why, now, that’s bad enough, entirely. The childer, they be different. If ’twas a woman I’d be willin’, for they leave peace behind ’em when they go.”

Disregarding the thrust, Mrs. McCaskey caught her husband’s arm.

“Jawn,” she said, sentimentally, “Missis Murphy’s little bye is lost. ’Tis a great city for losing little boys. Six years old he was.

Jawn, ’tis the same age our little bye would have been if we had had one six years ago.”

“We never did,” said Mr. McCaskey, lingering with the fact.

“But if we had, Jawn, think what sorrow would be in our hearts this night, with our little Phelan run away and stolen in the city nowheres at all.”

“Ye talk foolishness,” said Mr. McCaskey. “’Tis Pat he would be named, after me old father in Cantrim.”

“Ye lie!” said Mrs. McCaskey, without anger.

“Me brother was worth tin dozen bog-trotting McCaskeys. After him would the bye be named.” She leaned over the window-sill and looked down at the hurrying and bustle below.

“Jawn,” said Mrs. McCaskey, softly, “I’m sorry I was hasty wid ye.”

“’Twas hasty puddin’, as ye say,” said her husband, “and hurry-up turnips and get-a-move-on-ye coffee. ’Twas what ye could call a quick lunch, all right, and tell no lie.”

Mrs.