“So he’ll be goin’ at las’,” said she.
“Small wonder,” put in the sister; “sure he’s been poorly this long time.”
“The owld man made a tidy bit av money in his day,” said the brother, admiringly. “Bud,” with a sigh, “it’s lavin’ it all he’ll be.”
“An’ tell me, Malachi,” said Bridget, “d’yez think the gran’son’ll git any av it?”
O’Hara spilled some of the milk into his coffee.
“Divil a cint,” answered he, positively. “Sure, the owld man have niver noticed him since the day he wur born. An’ small blame till him,” rapping upon the table with his spoon, “for what call had his son till take up wid a Jewess?”
“But,” reasoned Ellen, “now that he do be dyin’ he might call him in an’—”
“Sorra the fear av that! Faix an’ whin Mike lay dead at O’Connor’s, the undertaker, he wint naythur nixt nor near him. Some say Kelly wur the cause av that, but owld Larry had timper enough av his own, God knows.”
“An’ do ye t’ink he’ll lave the property till the Church?”
“Ayther that or till Mary Carroll. Kelly t’inks there do be a chance for his boy, Martin; but Martin’s a hard drinker an’ the owld man niver liked a bone in his body.”