“I don’t care a straw for that,” said Terry. “I would not have the ould sinner, God rest his sowl, stravagin’ every other night about my honest decent cabin for all the goold in the Queen’s County.” “Well, then,” says the old woman, “go to the priest in the morning, and leave him the money, and let him dispose of it as he likes for the good of the ould vagabond’s misforthunate soul.” This plan was agreed to, and the conversation dropt. The ghost of the Boccough still rattled and clanked about the house. He never ceased stumping about, from the kitchen to the room, and from the room to the kitchen. Pots and pans, plates and pitchers, were tossed here and there; the dog was kicked, the cat was mauled, and even the raked-up fire was lashed out of the “gree-sough.” In fact, Terry declared that if the devil or Captain Rock was about the place, there couldn’t be more noise than there was that night with the Boccough’s ghost, and this continued without intermission until the bell of Abbeyleix castle clock was tolling the midnight hour. Terry was up next morning at sunrise, and having packed up the money which was the cause of all his trouble in his mother’s check apron, proceeded with a heavy heart to the residence of the priest, about two miles from the present Poor-man’s Bridge. The priest was not up when Terry arrived, but being well known to the domestics, he was admitted to his bed-chamber. “You have started early,” said the priest; “what troubles you now, Terry?” Terry gave a full and true account of his troubles, and concluded by telling him that he brought him the money to dispose of it as he thought best. “I won’t have any thing to do with it,” said the Father. “It is not mine, so you may take it back again the same road.” “Not a rap of it will ever go my road again,” said Terry. “Can’t you give it for his unfortunate ould sowl?” “I’ll have no hand in it,” said the priest. “Nor I either,” said Terry. “I wouldn’t have the ould miser _polthogueing_ about my quiet floor another night for the king’s ransom.” “Well, take it to your landlord; he is a magistrate, and he will have it put to some public works connected with the county,” said the priest. “Bad luck to the lord or lady I’ll ever take it to,” said Terry, making a spring, and bounding down the stairs, leaving the money, apron and all, on the floor at the priest’s bedside. “Come back, come back!” shouted the Father in a towering passion. “Good morning to your ravirince,” said Terry, as he flew with the swiftness of a mountain deer over the common before the priest’s door. “Ay, go back, indeed; catch ould birds with chaff. You have the money now, and you may make a bog or a dog of it, whichever you plaise.”