When Kelly and Simon Harding came, Father Ryan and the doctor were going down the steps.
“'Tis a solemn duty ye have, Kelly,” said the priest, “to watch the last moments of a dying man, now made ready for his end.”
“Ah, not Conlon! He'll not give up, not him,” cried Kelly, “the shtrong man wid the will in him!”
“An' what's the sthrength of man in the hands of his Creathor?” said the priest, turning to Harding, oratorically.
“I don' know,” said Harding, calmly. “Do you?”
“'Tis naught!”
Kelly murmured submissively.
“Kind of monarchical institution, ain't it, what Conlon's run up against?” Harding remarked. “Give him a fair show in a caucus, an' he'd win, sure.”
“He'll die if he don't sweat,” said the doctor, wiping his forehead. “It's hot enough.” Conlon lay muttering and glaring at the ceiling. The big knuckles of his hands stood out like rope-knots. His wife nodded to Kelly and Harding, and went out. She was a good-looking woman, large, massive, muscular. Kelly looked after her, rubbing his short nose and blinking his watery eyes. He was small, with stooping shoulders, affectionate eyes, wavering knees. He had followed Conlon, the strong, and served him many years. Admiration of Conlon was a strenuous business in which to be engaged.
“Ah!” he said, “his wife ten year, an' me his inchimate friend.”