“‘Upon me?’ says I.
“‘Troth, no less,’ says he; ‘how many masses was said for your father’s soul?—how many aves?—how many paters?—answer me.’
“‘Devil a one of me Knows!—maybe twenty.’
“‘Twenty, twenty—no, nor one.’
“‘And why not?’ says I, ‘what for wouldn’t you be helping a poor crayture out of trouble, when it wouldn’t cost you more nor a handful of prayers?’
“‘Mickey, I see,’ says he, in a solemn tone, ‘you’re worse nor a haythen: but ye couldn’t be other, ye never come to yer duties,’
“‘Well, Father,’ says I, looking very penitent, ‘how many masses would get him out?’
“‘Now you talk like a sensible man,’ says he; ‘now, Mickey, I’ve hopes for you—let me see’—here he went countin’ upon his fingers, and numberin’ to himself for five minutes—‘Mickey,’ says he, ‘I’ve a batch coming out on Tuesday week, and, if you were to make great exertions, perhaps your father would come with them; that is, av they made no objections.’
“‘And what for would they?’ says I; ‘he was always the hoith of company, and av singing’s allowed in them parts—’
“‘God forgive you, Mickey, but yer in a benighted state,’ says he, sighing.
“‘Well says I, ‘how’ll we get him out Tuesday week? for that’s bringing things to a focus.’
“‘Two masses, in the morning, fastin’,’ says Father Roach, half loud, ‘is two, and two in the afternoon is four, and two at vespers is six,’ says he; ‘six masses a day for nine days is close by sixty masses—say sixty,’ says he, ‘and they’ll cost you—mind, Mickey, and don’t be telling it again—for it’s only to yourself I’d make them so cheap—a matter of three pounds.”
“‘Three pounds,’ says I; ‘begorra, ye might as well ax me to give you the rock of Cashel’
“‘I’m sorry for ye, Mickey,’ says he, gathering up the reins to ride off; ‘I’m sorry for you; and the day will come when the neglect of your poor father will be a sore stroke agin yourself.’
“‘Wait a bit, your Reverence,’ says I, ‘wait a bit: would forty shillings get him out?’
“‘Ay course it wouldn’t,’ says he.
“‘Maybe,’ says I, coaxing, ‘maybe, av you said that his son was a poor boy that lived by his indhusiry, and the times was bad? ’
“‘Not the least use,’ says he.
“‘Arrah, but it’s hard-hearted they are,’ thinks I; ‘well, see now; I’ll give you the money—but I can’t afford it all at on’st—but I’ll pay five shillings a week—will that do?’
“‘Ill do my endayvours,’ says Father Roach; ‘and I’ll speak to them to trate him peaceably in the meantime,’
“‘Long life to your Reverence, and do. Well, here now, here’s five hogs to begin with; and, musha, but I never thought I’d be spending my loose change that a way.’
“Father Roach put the six tenpinnies in the pocket of his black breeches, said something in Latin, bid me good-morning, and rode off.
