“Sure, there are some English as well. But Leeds, in general, has a big Irish population, Blackie, and that’s where the poorest and most desperate live. Why, they started coming to Yorkshire around 1820, and well-settled they are by now.”

Patrick stood and put on his jacket, which had been across the back of his chair. “Let’s go out for a walk, lad. I need to stretch my legs. And your aunt would like us to stop by the bakery shop at noon. She’ll just be about finished by then. We’ll all come home together, and we can carry her shopping bags.”

“My jacket’s upstairs. I’ll just go and get it,” Blackie said, and hurried across the room.

“As you well know by now, it’s rare I just go for a stroll,” Patrick said with a twinkle as they began to walk down Town Street. “I need a purpose, or somewhere specific to go. And this morning I need to visit the draper’s.”

“As a matter of fact, so do I, Uncle,” Blackie confided. “I want to buy some underwear.”

“Mr. Pinkerton has a good selection of everything,” Patrick said. “He’s bound to have what you’re looking for.”

Blackie nodded. “I must thank you, Uncle Patrick, for the bonus yer giving me and Finn. Faith and it’s very generous of ye. And thank ye for asking Finn to join us for Sunday dinner. He’s so happy to come, he can’t wait.”

“He deserves a decent meal in family surroundings. He’s a good lad, and I’m happy you’ve taken him under your wing. I’ll be seeing Jack tonight, having a pint with him at the Barleycorn. I’ll ask him to come with us to the Ham Shank. It won’t be a problem, I know that.”

“I be thinking ye believe there’s safety in numbers, sure and I do, and I be in agreement with that, Uncle.”

Patrick nodded, and stopped suddenly. “Let’s get across the road, if we can. Mr. Pinkerton’s shop is over there. Lots of traffic on Town Street today. That’s normal on Saturdays, I suppose.”

They dodged across the road, and a few seconds later entered the draper’s shop to the sound of a tinkling bell announcing their arrival.

“Good morning, Mr. Kennedy,” Albert Pinkerton said, smiling, obviously pleased to greet a steady customer of long standing. He stood behind a long, polished wooden counter, with glass-fronted drawers beneath it and shelves lining the wall behind him. These contained the handkerchiefs, neckcloths, socks and shirts Patrick Kennedy knew were the best in the area.

“Morning, Mr. Pinkerton, and I think you know my nephew, Blackie O’Neill.”

“I do indeed,” he replied, nodding to Blackie in a friendly way. “And how can I be of help, Mr. Kennedy?”

“I’d like to look at some light cotton shirts for my nephew.”