At a sign from Ah Cum, official custodian of the sightseers, the polechair coolies pressed toward the left and halted. While involved in this crowd, near Temple Bar, —where the thoroughfare was most dangerous from the masses of ruin that impeded it,—an individual, whose swarthy features recalled to the carpenter one of his tormentors of the previous night, collared him, and, with bitter imprecations accused him of stealing his child. “Shut up, you little faggot. I meant mischief. The metrical irregularity is intentional, because I want, as it were, to put you apart: to change the lilt and the mood altogether when I speak of you. CHAPTER I.
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