“Ah, then, Misther Charles!” said he, with a half-suppressed yawn at the long period of probation his tongue had been undergoing in silence,--“ah, then, but ye were mighty near it!” “Near what?” said I. “Faith, then, myself doesn’t well know. Some say it’s purgathory; but it’s hard to tell.” “I thought you were too good a Catholic, Mickey, to show any doubts on the matter?” “May be I am; may be I ain’t,” was the cautious reply. “Wouldn’t Father Roach explain any of your difficulties for you, if you went over to him?” “Faix, it’s little I’d mind his explainings.” “And why not?” “Easy enough. If you ax ould Miles there, without, what does he be doing with all the powther and shot, wouldn’t he tell you he’s shooting the rooks, and the magpies, and some other varmint? But myself knows he sells it to Widow Casey, at two-and-fourpence a pound; so belikes, Father Roach may be shooting away at the poor souls in purgathory, that all this time are enjoying the hoith of fine living in heaven, ye understand.” “And you think that’s the way of it, Mickey?” “Troth, it’s likely. Anyhow, I know its not the place they make it out.” “Why, how do you mean?” “Well, then, I’ll tell you, Misther Charles; but you must not be saying anything about it afther, for I don’t like to talk about these kind of things.” Having pledged myself to the requisite silence and secrecy, Mickey began:-- “May be you heard tell of the way my father, rest his soul wherever he is, came to his end. Well, I needn’t mind particulars, but, in short, he was murdered in Ballinasloe one night, when he was baitin’ the whole town with a blackthorn stick he had; more by token, a piece of a scythe was stuck at the end of it,--a nate weapon, and one he was mighty partial to; but those murdering thieves, the cattle-dealers, that never cared for diversion of any kind, fell on him and broke his skull. “Well, we had a very agreeable wake, and plenty of the best of everything, and to spare, and I thought it was all over; but somehow, though I paid Father Roach fifteen shillings, and made him mighty drunk, he always gave me a black look wherever I met him, and when I took off my hat, he’d turn away his head displeased like. “‘Murder and ages,’ says I, ‘what’s this for?’ But as I’ve a light heart, I bore up, and didn’t think more about it. One day, however, I was coming home from Athlone market, by myself on the road, when Father Roach overtook me. ‘Devil a one a me ‘ill take any notice of you now,’ says I, ‘and we’ll see what’ll come out of it.’ So the priest rid up and looked me straight in the face. “‘Mickey,’ says he,--‘Mickey.’ “‘Father,’ says I. “‘Is it that way you salute your clargy,’ says he, ‘with your caubeen on your head?’ “‘Faix,’ says I, ‘it’s little ye mind whether it’s an or aff; for you never take the trouble to say, “By your leave,” or “Damn your soul!” or any other politeness when we meet.’