"Well, what's up, now?" I said, turning around.
"'T is the way we wants to go to confession, Fader."
"Hallo! are ye going to die to-night that ye are in such a mighty hurry?"
"No, Fader, but to-morrow is the fust Friday."
"Indeed! so it is. What has that to do with the matter?"
"But we are all making the Nine Fridays, Fader; and if we break wan, we must commence all over again."
"Well, run down to Father Letheby; he'll hear you."
"Father Letheby is in his box, Fader; and"—here there was a little smile and a fingering of the pinafores—"we'd rader go to you, Fader."
"'T is the way we wants to go to confession, Fader."