“‘I’m sorry for ye, Mickey,’ says he, gatherin’ up the reins to ride off,—‘I’m sorry for ye; and the time will come when the neglect of your poor father will be a sore stroke agin yourself.’
“‘Wait a bit, your reverence,’ says I,—‘wait a bit. Would forty shillings get him out?’
“‘Av course it wouldn’t,’ says he.
“‘May be,’ says I, coaxing,—‘may be, av you said that his son was a poor boy that lived by his indhustry, and the times was bad—’
“‘Not the least use,’ says he.
“‘Arrah, but it’s hard-hearted they are,’ thinks I. ‘Well, see now, I’ll give you the money, but I can’t afford it all at onst; but I’ll pay five shillings a week. Will that do?’
“‘I’ll do my endayvors,’ says Father Roach; ‘and I’ll speak to them to treat him peaceably in the meantime.’
“‘Long life to yer reverence, and do. Well, here now, here’s five hogs to begin with; and, musha, but I never thought I’d be spending my loose change that way.’
“Father Roach put the six tinpinnies in the pocket of his black leather breeches, said something in Latin, bid me good-morning, and rode off.
“Well, to make my story short, I worked late and early to pay the five shillings a week, and I did do it for three weeks regular; then I brought four and fourpence; then it came down to one and tenpence halfpenny, then ninepence, and at last I had nothing at all to bring.