“‘Murder and ages,’ says I, ‘what’s this for?’ But as I’ve a light heart, I bore up, and didn’t think more about it. One day, however, I was coming home from Athlone market, by myself on the road, when Father Roach overtook me. ‘Devil a one a me ‘ill take any notice of you now,’ says I, ‘and we’ll see what’ll come out of it.’ So the priest rid up and looked me straight in the face.
“‘Mickey,’ says he,—‘Mickey.’
“‘Father,’ says I.
“‘Is it that way you salute your clargy,’ says he, ‘with your caubeen on your head?’
“‘Faix,’ says I, ‘it’s little ye mind whether it’s an or aff; for you never take the trouble to say, “By your leave,” or “Damn your soul!” or any other politeness when we meet.’
“‘You’re an ungrateful creature,’ says he; ‘and if you only knew, you’d be trembling in your skin before me, this minute.’
“‘Devil a tremble,’ says I, ‘after walking six miles this way.’
“‘You’re an obstinate, hard-hearted sinner,’ says he; ‘and it’s no use in telling you.’
“‘Telling me what?’ says I; for I was getting curious to make out what he meant.
“‘Mickey,’ says he, changing his voice, and putting his head down close to me,—‘Mickey, I saw your father last night.’