"Well, look here," said Father Letheby, "I'm not going to submit to this infamous extortion. I didn't employ you, and I acknowledge no responsibility whatsoever." "That manes you won't pay us, your reverence?" said the foreman, in a free translation. "Precisely," said Father Letheby, closing the door abruptly. He heard them murmuring and threatening outside, but took no notice of them. Later in the evening he took his usual stroll. He found these fellows loafing around the public house. They had been denouncing him vigorously, and occasionally a Parthian shaft came after him:-- "Begor, 't is quare, sure enough." "Begor, we thought the priests couldn't do any wrong." But when he turned the corner he met a good deal of sympathy:-- "Wisha, begor, 't is your reverence was wanted to tache these blackguards a lesson." "Wisha, 't was God sent you," etc., etc. Now, one shilling would have given these fellows lashings of porter, and secured their everlasting fealty and an unlimited amount of popularity. I told him so. "Never," he said, drawing back his head, and with flashing eyes, "I shall never lend myself to so demoralizing a practice. We must get these people out of the mire." The next day, he thought he was bound to see how Jem was progressing with his contract. He went down to the little church and passed into the sacristy, whence he had a clear view of the roof of St. Joseph's Chapel. Jem was there, leisurely doing nothing, and on the graveyard wall were eight men, young and old, surveying the work and offering sundry valuable suggestions. They took this shape:-- "Wisha, Jem, take the world aisy. You're killing yerself, man." "What a pity he's lost his wice (voice); sure 't was he was able to rise a song." "Dey say," interjected a young ragamuffin, "dat Fader Letheby is going to take Simon Barry into his new choir. Simon is a tinner, and Jem is only a bannitone." "Hould your tongue, you spalpeen," said a grown man, "Jem can sing as well as twinty Simons, dat is if he could only wet his whistle." "Thry dat grand song, Jem, ''T is Years Since Last We Met.'" "No, no," said the chorus, "give us 'Larry McGee.'" "Wisha, byes, wouldn't wan of ye run over to Mrs. Haley's for a pint. 'T is mighty dhry up here." "Here ye are," said the chorus, chipping in and making up the requisite "tuppence." "Don't be long about it, ye young ruffian." "But what about the pledge, Jem?" asked a conscientious spectator. "Shure your time isn't up yet." "'T is up long ago," cried another. "'Twas three months yesterday since he took the pledge." "Byes," said Jem, who was troubled at the possible scandal he was about to give, "I promised not to dhrink in a public house; and shure this isn't a public house, glory be to God!" They took off their hats reverently; and then the pint came, was taken up the ladder with great care and solemnity, and a few minutes after, Father Letheby heard:-- "What is it going to be, byes? I've left me music on the pianney!"