day. That accounts for the drivel I’m talking. Why don’t you kick me out, Father?”
“Faith! there’s niver an inch of ye softer than the toe of me boot—unless ut’s yer head. Ye’ve got somethin’ out of servin’ the Lion, Ormond.”
“Yes,” said Ormond. He picked up his pipe, and sat down again, laughing half-ashamed. “For a chap has no right to kick up a shine over his daily work,” he said.
Then as the light caught the priest’s face, he added quickly: “You’ve a trouble of your own to-night. Father?”
“I have, then. Did ye hear ov ut? A sob blows news quicker than ahl the laughs of the worrld will du—aye; ye foight for yer iron scrapin’s an’ driftwud wid Nature, Ormond. I’m foightin’ worse down here—wid the divil thrippin’ sowls be the heels, an’ ahl the evil ov the earth tu give power tu his elbow when ut’s needed.”
“What is it?” asked Ormond, blowing the smoke aside.
“Ould Buggy was found dyin’ in his bed this mornin’, along—ye know the lonely road where he lived? Clane starved tu a shtick he was, wid niver a penny an’ niver a crust tu bless him. An’ he that kep a servant an’ was rowlin’ in money.”
“Poor old beggar! What’d he done? Sunk it in mines?”
