The policeman knocked: and the door was opened, cautiously, by an old Jew,
of a most un-"Caucasian" cast of features, however "high-nosed," as Mr.
Disraeli has it.
The policeman asked to see Michael Kelly.
"Michaelsh? I do't know such namesh--" But before the parley could go
farther, the farmer burst past policeman and Jew, and rushed into the
passage, roaring, in a voice which made the very windows rattle,
"Billy Poorter! Billy Poorter! whor be yow? whor be yow?"
We all followed him up-stairs, in time to see him charging valiantly,
with his stick for a bayonet, the small person of a Jew-boy, who stood
at the head of the stairs in a scientific attitude. The young rascal
planted a dozen blows in the huge carcase--he might as well have thumped
the rhinoceros in the Regent's Park; the old man ran right over him,
without stopping, and dashed up the stairs; at the head of which--oh,
joy!--appeared a long, shrunken, red-haired figure, the tears on its dirty
cheeks glittering in the candle-glare. In an instant father and son were in
each other's arms.
"Oh, my barn! my barn! my barn! my barn!" And then the old Hercules held
him off at arm's length, and looked at him with a wistful face, and hugged
him again with "My barn! my barn!" He had nothing else to say.
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