“Very likely, in throth, Bridget,” said her husband; “however, as the ould proverb has it, 'honesty's the best policy.' Let them see which of us I'll be the best off at the end of the year.”
“There's an odd whisper here an' there about another robber,” continued Bryan; “but I don't believe a word about it. No, no;—he's wild, and not scrupulous in many things, but I always thought him generous, an' indeed rather careless about money.”
“You mane the sportheen?” said his brother Art.
“The Hogans,” said the old man, recurring to the subject, as associated with them, “would rob anybody barrin' the Cavanaghs; but I won't listen to it, Bryan, that Hycy Burke, or the son of any honest man that ever had an opportunity of hearin' the Word o' God, or livin' in a Christian counthry, could ever think of robbin' his own father—his own father! I won't listen to that.”
“No, nor I, grandfather,” said Bryan, “putting everything else out of the question, its too unnatural an act. What makes you shake your head, Art?”
“I never liked a bone in his body, somehow,” replied Art.
“Ay, but my goodness, Art,” said Dora, “sure nobody would think of robbin' their own father?”
“He has been doin' little else these three years, Dora, by all accounts,” replied Art.
“Ay, but his father,” continued the innocent girl; “to break into the house at night an' rob him like a robber!”
“Well, I say, it's reported that he has been robbin' him these three years in one shape or other,” continued Art; “but here's Shibby, let's hear what she'll say. What do you think, shibby?”