Once again fortune favored him. At this very opportune moment a man from Pittsburg, called by the saloon-keeper Tim Gallagher—a traveling liquor dealer, opened the door, entered, and greeted Kehoe as an old acquaintance. He was introduced to McKenna, who was treated by Kehoe and his friend as a true Ancient Order man, and informed that the last arrival was at the head of the society in Pittsburg. Several other persons now coming in, Kehoe forgot all about his investigation, and the operative was very far from giving him any hint to return to it. Just before supper-time, Gallagher, Kehoe, and McKenna—who that day by chance wore his Sunday suit of clothes, the weather being too cold for his first costume—all sallied forth, leaving the tavern to the charge of Mrs. Kehoe, to make a few informal calls upon city friends and companions. Gallagher, as they walked, enlightened his co-member upon the condition of the order in Western Pennsylvania. He said the part of country named was full of the spirit of the order, and they had everything their own way, the clergy being with them very cordially, if not inside the ring. During their round they stopped at the house of the resident Catholic clergyman, Father Bridgeman, who, despite his many and violent denunciations of the Mollies, was a personal friend of Gallagher. After the usual greetings the Pittsburg man asked the priest, jokingly: “Have you ceased scolding the Sleepers yet?” “No, I have not!” said the clergyman, “and never shall while they remain as they are.” “Why is it that the Church in this part of the State acts so differently in this regard from the Catholics in Pittsburg?” [Illustration: _“A withering curse rest upon it, and upon all in any way connected with it.”_] “The cases materially differ,” answered the priest, warming up quickly. “With you, in the west, the members have something like friendship for one another, and the order is not managed in the interest of politicians, tavern-keepers, and other bad men. Here it is in the control of a few unscrupulous fellows, who care not for God or man, only for themselves and their own pockets. Yet they call themselves Irishmen! They can sneak around and whip and kill some unfortunate person—some mining boss, or superintendent, or destroy property, thus scandalizing those in the Church of the same nativity—but they do not dare to turn out in regalia on St. Patrick’s day, with honest Irishmen, for then they would be known and marked for the murderers and assassins they are. Oh, it’s a bad, bad society! A withering curse rest upon it, and upon all in any way connected with it!” The priest evidently felt every word that he said, and, though one of the most generous of men, could find no good language to waste upon the Mollie Maguires.