"Begor, Jer," said a young man, "ye 're getting mixed."
"There's a hole in the ballad and the song fell out," said another.
"Jer could tell that story betther, if he had a couple of glasses in, I'm thinking," said the young mason, as they strolled away and left Jer sitting on the monument.
"Yes; or if he had the clay in his mouth, and the pint on the dresser," said his companion.
So was this great actor hissed off the stage. It was a bad breakdown, and there was no mercy. It turned the women's conversation back to their curate.
"May the Lord stringthen and help him in his endeavor, our darlin' man," said one.
"Amin, thin, and may the Blessed Vargin put the words into his mouth that he has to shpake," cried another. The children listened gravely. All that they could conjecture was that Father Letheby was engaged on a great and dangerous enterprise.
I never had a moment's doubt but that their prayers were heard and their predictions verified, although when Father Letheby called the next day he looked depressed and gloomy enough.
"Well," I said, "a great success, of course?"
"I'm afraid not," he said moodily.