Ye’ll not heal a wound wid the splinter stayin’ in it.”
“The wound has bred the splinter.”
The priest looked at Randal quickly.
“Begorra; that’s the ould riddle ov the hin an’ the egg. We’ll not ask which came fust, then. Bhut we’ll thry tu get the splinter out.”
“You never will,” said Randal, as one who knew.
“Import a few more chuckers-out made on Murray’s last,” murmured Ormond.
This pricked Randal’s flesh, and roused him.
“You can trust most communities to sift the sound from the rotten. We require a man to ride straight, and to hit straight, and to live straight———.”
“Ye measure the last distance wid a mighty crooked shtick, then,” said Father Denis, dryly.
Randal reddened.
“We don’t ask religion—or sobriety—or the outward graces of speech. But a man who rides and hits out straight can’t live very crooked.”
“By Jove,” cried Ormond, “you’ve nailed him there! Didn’t I tell you. Father? When we see a man’s hand shake on the rifle-stock or the rein we mark him down at once. For we knew him in his youth. But the tourists who belt through New Zealand, giving tongue, and picking up stuff as they run—they go back and
