"They'd better stop for it. They'd better quiet down for it. They'll have to turn it off for five minutes or so."
"Maybe they won't."
It was a new idea, and it frightened him. He liked the music, and the party's gaiety, the nearness of youth and good times—but it hadn't occurred to him that it wouldn't stop so he could hear the beast.
"Don't get upset, Donegal. You know what a blast-off sounds like."
"But it's the last one. The last time. I want to hear."
"How do you know it's the last time?"
"Hell, don't I know when I'm kicking off?"
"Maybe, maybe not. It's hardly your decision."
"It's not, eh?" Old Donegal fumed. "Well, bigawd you'd think it wasn't. You'd think it was Martha's and yours and that damfool medic's. You'd think I got no say-so. Who's doing it anyway?"
"I would guess," Father Paul grunted sourly, "that Providence might appreciate His fair share of the credit."