pose. They are idiots. Blind, deaf idiots—and I wish to Heaven they were dumb too. They stew away in their own juice down in town, an’ put all my letters in the waste-paper basket. What? Bert Kiliat’s the only one of ’em all who has been up to see it, and he’s about as much good as a sick-headache. His father has told him that expenses must be kept down. That’s all he can say when I show him a leaky pipe spitting like a cat. Curse him!”
“Tut-t-t!”
“I beg your pardon. Father. But—you don’t see the futile puerility of it all. Twenty-three miles of race, and two and three quarters of pipes, and a twelve-inch plant. I tell you, it needs constant outlay to keep it in order. And this has had nothing spent on it for a year. I’m sick of asking———”
Ormond came back to the mantel-shelf, crossed his arms on it, and dropped his head. His nerves were strung to the tightness which in a woman would be hysteria. Father Denis got up heavily, and put his hands on the stooped shoulders.
“There’s no credit owin’ ye in takin’ yer whippin’, Ormond. We all have tu du that wan toime or another. Bhut ye can boite on the bullet, can’t ye? Or there’s nothin’ of a man tu ye bhut the clothes.”
Ormond did not move. He was squarely and strongly built, with the spade fingers and
