Free Men of No Property by Dorothy Salisbury Davis

“I’m takin’ off.”
    “Vinnie, get hold of yourself. We’ve a bargain,” Dennis said firmly.
    “I’ll get a man with a trumpet,” Kevin said. “Now don’t go from this spot.”
    “Are you all right now, ladies?” the policeman said, having waited the greeting. “I must get back to my post.”
    “Sir,” Norah said, hoisting the child higher on her hip, “can you recommend us a boarding house?—a respectable one for single ladies?”
    The policeman looked down on her and the child, startled. “Single ladies?”
    Peg remembered the pretense on which she had fetched him, to help her sister and her infant. “Aye,” she said, her eyes dancing with mischief. “Unmarried ladies.”
    “No, Miss. You might try the Sisters of Mercy,” he said. His face flooded with color and he retreated in haste.
    Peg laughed aloud.
    “Behave yerself, Peg. “We’re in a fine state and you laughin’.”
    “Shall I stand here and cry? Will it get us out o’ it?”
    “Here, gimme the child,” Dennis said, for Emma had her fist so deep in Norah’s bodice she was in danger of splitting it down the middle. She merely dug in the deeper.
    “Put her down an’ I’ll take her,” Vinnie said. “She’s mine and I’ll take her and yous can go yer own way.”
    “Stop makin’ a fuss,” Dennis said fiercely. “Here, Norah, sit down.” He shoved her and the child down on his trunk.
    “Sisters of Mercy,” Norah said thoughtfully. “Are they a charity over here?”
    “They run a home for fallen women,” Peg snapped.
    “What?” said Norah.
    “Oh for the love o’ God,” Dennis said desperately.
    “Cheerio, matie! No ’ard feelings!” A sailor, his seabag over his shoulder, swung past them, clapping Dennis on the back as he went. It was the one who had delivered him to the captain.
    Dennis shook his fist. “You little wart!” he called after him. “I’d like to blister yous up to the size of a carbuncle!”
    When he turned back, Norah had leaped up from the trunk. Standing beside her was Young Ireland. The coat didn’t fit him, whosever it was, but it was an elegant cut, nonetheless, and no priest ever wore one of its color.
    “Is there any way I can help you?” Farrell asked.
    Dennis drowned out the thanks of the others. “None at all,” he said airily. “We’re waitin’ our carriage.”
    Farrell ignored him. “Vincent, have you found your father?”
    “He’s busy wi’ somit,” Vinnie said, taking his tone from Dennis. “We’re waitin’ him now.”
    “I see.” Farrell bowed slightly to the girls.
    Norah put the child down on the trunk, and when Emma would not release her, she pried the small fingers loose and bade her not to be naughty. Then Norah turned back to Farrell.
    “You were very kind to us all in our trouble, Mr. Farrell,” she said, taking great care with her words. “I hope you have good fortune in America.” She offered her hand to him.
    Dennis stood, his mouth open. She had understood, after all, and sifted her pride through with pity. A deep one, Norah Hickey, for the quiet tongue and the soothing manner.
    Farrell lifted her hand to his lips. “Thank you,” he said. “If there’s any way I can serve you, get word to me through the Irish Directory. God bless you all.”
    He was gone, a boy at his heels carrying a seabag, the loan apparently of The Valiant ’s captain. At the end of the dock, he whistled up a hack, and waved back to them from the window as he jogged off. His porter shined up the sixpence.
    “That,” Dennis said, and not without admiration, “is the way every Irishman should tumble onto a foreign shore.”
    Kevin Lavery returned bringing a priest with him instead of a trumpeter. The priest heard the story of Vinnie’s grandmother and then queried him on his father’s name and address, and after that his occupation. His name was all that Vinnie knew. Kevin paid a callboy to go up and down the docks, singing out: “Tom Dunne…Thomas Dunne, yer wanted