"
Gallegher's eyes flashed significantly, and nodding his head to show
he understood, started boldly on a run toward the door. But the
officers who guarded it brought him to an abrupt halt, and, much to
Mr. Dwyer's astonishment, drew from him what was apparently a torrent
of tears.
"Let me go to me father. I want me father," the boy shrieked,
hysterically. "They've 'rested father. Oh, daddy, daddy. They're a-
goin' to take you to prison."
"Who is your father, sonny?" asked one of the guardians of the gate.
"Keppler's me father," sobbed Gallegher. "They're a-goin' to lock him
up, and I'll never see him no more."
"Oh, yes, you will," said the officer, good-naturedly; "he's there in
that first patrol-wagon. You can run over and say good night to him,
and then you'd better get to bed. This ain't no place for kids of your
age."
"Thank you, sir," sniffed Gallegher, tearfully, as the two officers
raised their clubs, and let him pass out into the darkness.
The yard outside was in a tumult, horses were stamping, and plunging,
and backing the carriages into one another; lights were flashing from
every window of what had been apparently an uninhabited house, and the
voices of the prisoners were still raised in angry expostulation.
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