“And it's not but I spoke to him about both, yer Eeverence.”
“And what did he say, Phaddy?”
“'Phaddy,' said he, 'I have been giving Father M'Guirk, one way or another, between whiskey, oats, and dues, a great deal of money every year; and now, afther I'm dead,' says he, 'isn't it an ungrateful thing of him not to offer up one mass for my sowl, except I leave him payment for it?'”
“Did he say that, Phaddhy?”
“I'm giving you his very words, yer Reverence.”
“Phaddhy, I deny it; it's a big lie—he could not make much use of such words, and he going to face death. I say you could not listen to them; the hair would stand on your head if he did; but God forgive him—that's the worst I wish him. Didn't the hair stand on your head, Phaddhy, to hear him?”
“Why, then, to tell yer Reverence God's truth, I can't say it did.”
“You can't say it did! and if I was in your coat, I would be ashamed to say it did not. I was always troubled about the way the fellow died, but I hadn't the slightest notion: that he went off such a reprobate. I fought his battle and yours hard enough yesterday; but I knew less about him than I do now.”
“And what, wid submission, did you fight our battles about, yer Reverence?” inquired Phaddhy.
“Yesterday evening, in Parrah More Slevin's, they had him a miser, and yourself they set down as very little better.”