“So, sir,” said the priest, “you are on your way to Bob Beatty's, who is, as you know, one of my flock. But how do you expect to get through the business, Mr. Lucre, seeing that you are so long out of practice?”
“Bob Beatty was never, properly speaking, one of your flock, Mr. M'Cabe. I must beg leave to ride forward, sir, and leave you to your Christian meditations. One interview with you is enough for any man.”
“Faith, but I love you too well to part with you so easily,” said the priest, spurring on his horse, “cheek by jowl—and a beautiful one you have—will I ride with you, my worthy epicure; and, what is more, I'll anoint Bob Beatty before your eyes.”
“And, perhaps, perform another miracle,” replied Mr. Lucre, bitterly.
“Ay will, if it be necessary,” said the priest; “but I do most solemnly assure you that by far the most brilliant miracle of modern days is to find the Rev. Phineas Lucre at a sick-bed. Depend upon it, however, if Beatty had not turned Catholic, he might die like a dog for the same Mr. Lucre.”
“I will not abstract the last shilling from his pocket for the unction of superstition, at all events.”
“Not you, faith; you'll charge him nothing I grant, and right glad am I to find that you know the value of your services. You forget, however, that my flock pay you well for doing this nothing—that is, for discharging your duty—notwithstanding.”
Both now pushed on at a rapid rate, growling at each other as they went along. On getting into the fields they increased their speed; and as the peasantry of both religions were apprised of the circumstances connected with Bob's complaint and conversion, each party cheered on their own champion.
“More power to you Father M'Cabe; give him the Latin and the Bravery!” (*Breviary)
“Success, Mr. Lucre! Push on, sir, and don't let the Popish rebel send him out of the world with a bandage on his eyes. Lay in the Bible, Mr. Lucre! Protestant and True Blue forever—hurra!”