"You know how wild like I came home last night," explained Mickey. "Well,
I had reason. Some folks who have been good to us, and that I love like we
love Peter and Ma, had been in awful danger of something that would make
them sore all their lives, and maybe I had some little part in putting it
over, so it never touched them; anyway, they thought so, and I was tickled
past all sense and reason about it. It was up to the editor of the
_Herald_ to decide; and what he did, was what I begged him to. Course left
to himself, he would a-done it anyway, _after he had time to think_----"
"Mickey, read my po'try piece about me, an' then talk," urged Peaches.
"Honey, you make me so sick I can't tell you."
"Mickey, what's the matter?"
Peaches' penetrating eyes were slowly changing to accusing. She drew a
deep breath, giving him his first cold, unrelenting look.
"Mister Michael O'Halloran," she said in incisive tones, "did you write a
po'try piece for the first page of the _Herald, not_ about me?"
"Well Miss Chicken," he cried, "I wish you wouldn't talk so much! I wish
you'd let me _tell_ you.
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