The May moon shone bright upon the private boardinghouseof Mrs. Murphy. By reference to the almanac a largeamount of territory will be discovered upon which its raysalso fell. Spring was in its heydey， with hay fever soon tofollow. The parks were green with new leaves and buyersfor the Western and Southern trade. Flowers and summerresortagents were blowing； the air and answers to Lawsonwere growing milder； hand-organs， fountains and pinochlewere playing everywhere.
The windows of Mrs. Murphy’s boarding-house wereopen. A group of boarders were seated on the high stoopupon round， flat mats like German pancakes.
In one of the second-floor front windows Mrs. McCaskeyawaited her husband. Supper was cooling on the table. Itsheat went into Mrs. McCaskey.
At nine Mr. McCaskey came. He carried his coat onhis arm and his pipe in his teeth； and he apologised fordisturbing the boarders on the steps as he selected spotsof stone between them on which to set his size 9， widthDs.
As he opened the door of his room he received a surprise.
Instead of the usual stove-lid or potato-masher for him tododge， came only words.
Mr. McCaskey reckoned that the benign May moon hadsoftened the breast of his spouse.
“I heard ye，” came the oral substitutes for kitchenware.
“Ye can apollygise to riff-raff of the streets for settin’ yerunhandy feet on the tails of their frocks， but ye’d walk onthe neck of yer wife the length of a clothes-line withoutso much as a ‘Kiss me fut，’ and I’m sure it’s that long fromrubberin’ out the windy for ye and the victuals cold suchas there’s money to buy after drinkin’ up yer wages atGallegher’s every Saturday evenin’， and the gas man heretwice to-day for his.”
“Woman！” said Mr. McCaskey， dashing his coat and hatupon a chair， “the noise of ye is an insult to me appetite.
When ye run down politeness ye take the mortar frombetween the bricks of the foundations of society. ’Tis nomore than exercisin’ the acrimony of a gentleman whenye ask the dissent of ladies blockin’ the way for steppin’
between them. Will ye bring the pig’s face of ye out of thewindy and see to the food？”
Mrs. McCaskey arose heavily and went to the stove.
There was something in her manner that warned Mr.
McCaskey. When the corners of her mouth went downsuddenly like a barometer it usually foretold a fall ofcrockery and tinware.
“Pig’s face， is it？” said Mrs. McCaskey， and hurled astewpan full of bacon and turnips at her lord.
Mr. McCaskey was no novice at repartee. He knew whatshould follow the entrée. On the table was a roast sirloinof pork， garnished with shamrocks. He retorted with this，and drew the appropriate return of a bread pudding in anearthen dish. A hunk of Swiss cheese accurately thrownby her husband struck Mrs. McCaskey below one eye.
When she replied with a well-aimed coffee-pot full of ahot， black， semi-fragrant liquid the battle， according tocourses， should have ended.
But Mr. McCaskey was no 50-cent table d’h？ter. Letcheap Bohemians consider coffee the end， if they would.
Let them make that faux pas. He was foxier still. Fingerbowlswere not beyond the compass of his experience.
They were not to be had in the Pension Murphy； but theirequivalent was at hand. Triumphantly he sent the granitewarewash basin at the head of his matrimonial adversary.
Mrs. McCaskey dodged in time. She reached for a flatiron，with which， as a sort of cordial， she hoped to bring thegastronomical duel to a close. But a loud， wailing screamdownstairs caused both her and Mr. McCaskey to pause ina sort of involuntary armistice.
On the sidewalk at the corner of the house PolicemanCleary was standing with one ear upturned， listening tothe crash of household utensils.
“’Tis Jawn McCaskey and his missis at it again，”
meditated the policeman. “I wonder shall I go up andstop the row. I will not. Married folks they are； and fewpleasures they have. ’Twill not last long. Sure， they’ll haveto borrow more dishes to keep it up with.”
And just then came the loud scream below-stairs，betokening fear or dire extremity. “’Tis probably the cat，”
said Policeman Cleary， and walked hastily in the otherdirection.
The boarders on the steps were fluttered. Mr. Toomey，an insurance solicitor by birth and an investigator byprofession， went inside to analyse the scream. He returnedwith the news that Mrs. Murphy’s little boy， Mike，was lost. Following the messenger， out bounced Mrs.
Murphy—two hundred pounds in tears and hysterics，clutching the air and howling to the sky for the loss ofthirty pounds of freckles and mischief. Bathos， truly； butMr. Toomey sat down at the side of Miss Purdy， millinery，and their hands came together in sympathy. The two oldmaids， Misses Walsh， who complained every day about thenoise in the halls， inquired immediately if anybody hadlooked behind the clock.
Major Grigg， who sat by his fat wife on the top step，arose and buttoned his coat. “The little one lost？” heexclaimed. “I will scour the city.” His wife never allowedhim out after dark. But now she said： “Go， Ludovic！” ina baritone voice. “Whoever can look upon that mother’sgrief without springing to her relief has a heart of stone.”
“Give me some thirty or—sixty cents， my love，” said theMajor. “Lost children sometimes stray far. I may needcarfares.”
Old man Denny， hall room， fourth floor back， who saton the lowest step， trying to read a paper by the streetlamp， turned over a page to follow up the article aboutthe carpenters’ strike. Mrs. Murphy shrieked to the moon：
“Oh， ar-r-Mike， f’r Gawd’s sake， where is me little bit av aboy？”
“When’d ye see him last？” asked old man Denny， withone eye on the report of the Building Trades League.
