“Yet you are a firm believer in the goodness of Providence, notwithstanding all these cruel blows?”
“Musha, sorr,” said Rafferty anxiously, “have ye nivver read the Book o’ Job? Look at the thrials an’ crosses put on that poor ould craythur, an’ where would he have been if the thrue faith wasn’t in him?”
“Rafferty, I would give ten years of my life to believe as you believe.”
“Indade, sorr, ye needn’t give tin minutes. Go home to yer room, an’ sink down on your marrowbones, an’ ax for help an’ guidance, an’ they’ll be given you as sure as the sun will rise tomorrow. Though, moind ye, ye mayn’t know it all at wance, just as it may be rainin’ tomorrow, when the sun will be hid; but he’ll be shinin’ high up in the sky for all that.”
The two crossed Sixth Avenue together, and Rafferty pointed to a big building, a place ablaze with light and quivering with the activities of six-decker printing machines.
“That’s where I’m goin’,” he said. “Maybe they’ll detain me some toime.”
“Before we part, my friend, tell me where you live.”
“Away over in the poorest part o’ Twinty-sivinth Street, sorr.”
“And how old is your grandson?”
“He’ll be eleven next birthday.”