“What man?” eying them both suspiciously.
Dil’s lips moved, but her throat was so dry she could not utter a sound.
“Wan of them Moody an’ Sankey men that do be singin’ around, an’ prayin’. An’ ye niver heard sich an’ iligant v’ice even at the free and easies! Why, Mrs. Quinn, it’s my belafe, in spite of the praist, he cud draw a soul out o’ purgatory just wid his singin’. Mrs. Bolan’s that ’raptured she does nothin’ but quaver about wid her shaky old v’ice. Ah, dear—ave ye cud hev heard him!”
“To the divil wid him! Comin’ round to git money out’v poor folks. I knows ’em. Dil, did you give him a cint?”
“I didn’t have any; but he didn’t ast for none,” and the poor child had hard work to steady her voice.
“An’ ye’r mistaken, Mrs. Quinn, if ye think the likes of sich a gentleman would be beggin’ of the poor,” returned Mrs. Murphy indignantly. “An’ he a-gevin a poor ould craythur five dollars! An’ they do be goin’ around a-missionin’ with their prayers and hymns.”
“I know ’em. An’ the praists an’ the sisters beggin’ the last cint, an’ promisin’ to pray ye outen purgatory! Mrs. Murphy,” with withering contempt, “them men cuddent pray ye outen a sewer ditch if ye fell in! An’ I won’t have them comin’ here—ye hear that, Dilsey Quinn! If I catch a Moody an’ Sankey man here, I’ll break ivery bone in his body, an’ yours too; ye hear that now!”
Mrs. Quinn was evidently “spilin’ for a fight.” Mrs. Murphy went off in high dudgeon without another word.
But she stopped to pour out her grievance to Mrs. Garrick on her floor.
“Shure, I pity them childers, for their mother do be the worst haythen an’ infidel, not belayvin’ a word about her own sowl, an’ spindin’ her money for gin as she do. She was a foine-lukin’ woman, an’ now her eyes is all swelled up, an’ her nose the color of an ould toper. An’ that poor little Bess dyin’ afore her very eyes widout a bit of a mass, or even christenin’ I belayve. I’m not that bigoted, Mrs. Garrick, though the praists do say there bees but the wan way. I’m willin’ that people shall try their own ways, so long as they save their sowls; but pore, helpless bits of childer that can’t know! An’ what are their mothers put in the wurruld for but to tache them? But when ye don’t belayve ye have a sowl of yer own it’s awful! There’s them b’ys runnin’ wild—an’ a moighty good thing it’ll be whin they’re in the ’form-school, kapin’ out o’ jail, an’ wuss!”