'Then it's devil another penny of mine will go for masses, for if my Pat has his head and shoulders out, I can safely reckon he'll soon wriggle himself away entirely, God bless the poor darling.'
Another purgatory tale, this time concerning Father Batt.
A fellow-priest came to see him, and over a friendly glass:—
'And what's the news?' asked Father Batt.
'None that I know on earth, but I do hear tell that the floor of purgatory has given way and all the inhabitants have fallen into hell.'
'Oh, the poor Protestants, that will be all crushed by the weight atop of them,' was Father Batt's rejoinder.
Few priests in Kerry have been better known or more beloved than he, almost the last of the old-fashioned school, and he was always warm friends with his Protestant colleague in Milltown, where he resided.
Father Batt invariably took a few tumblers of hot whisky punch after dinner, and having got ill was advised by the doctor to give it up and take to claret.
When the bishop met him some time later, he said:—
'Well, Father Batt, I am afraid you do not like claret so well as the whisky.'