"What's that yer sayin' about me?" said Father Prendy, coming up rubbing his hands, bowing to the strangers, beaming with a cheerfulness that could outlast any delay under the sun.
"'Twas black I was callin' ye, Father Prendy," said Paddy. "For the fine pair of black eyes ye carry, why not? Isn't it a good drink ye'll be havin' on me afore the day is out, eh? Isn't it a pretty penny ye're costin' me, with your marrin' an' givin' in marriage? An' why isn't it Danny what pays the wedding breakfast, eh?"
"Hold your peace, Paddy, my dear. I see a wagon comin', don't I?"
Sure enough the black wicker buggy rattling down hill, the white horse seeming to swim, the urchin standing up, feet wide apart, elbows high up, bending forward and urging the bone-white steed with curses unnameable.
"What now! What now!" murmured the priest, feeling in his pocket for his stole. "What now!"
"Where's Dad?" yelled the urchin, pulling the bone-white steed on its bony haunches, in front of the church.
Dad had gone round the corner. But he came bustling and puffing and bursting in his skin-tight scarlet coat, that almost cut his arms off, his own ancient father, with a long grey beard, pushing him irritably, propelling him towards the slippery boy. As if this family, generation by generation, got more and more behindhand in its engagements.
"Gawd's sake!" blowed the scarlet Dad, as the old grey granddad shoved him.
"Hold ye breath, Dad, 'n come 'ome!" said the urchin, subsiding comfortably on to the seat, and speaking as if he enjoyed the utmost privacy. "Sis can't get away. She's had a baby. An' Ma says I was to tell Mr. O'Burk as it's a foine boy, an' would Father Prendy step up, and Pat O'Burk can come 'n see with his own eyes."