“That started off well enough, O’Daly,” he said; “but you’re getting too old to have to hustle around and turn out poetry to order, as you used to. I’ve decided to allow you to retire--to sort of knock off your shoes and let you run in the pasture. You can move into one of the smaller houses and just take things easy.” “But, sir--me secretarial juties--” put in O’Daly, with quavering voice. “There’ll be no manner of trouble about that,” said the O’Mahony, reassuringly. “My friend, here, Joseph Higgins, of Boston, he will look out for that. I don’t know that you’re aware of it, but I took a good deal of interest in him many years ago--before I went away--and I foresaw a future for him. It hasn’t turned out jest as I expected, but I’m satisfied, all the same. Before I left, I arranged that he should pursue his studies during my absence.” A grimly quizzical smile played around the white corners of his mustache as he added: “I understand that he jest stuck to them studies night and day--never left ’em once for so much as to go out and take a walk for the whole twelve years.” “Surely, sir,” interposed Father Jago, “that’s most remarkable! I never heard tell of such studiosity in Maynooth itself!” The O’Mahony looked gravely across the table at Jerry, whose broad, shining face was lobster-red with the exertion of keeping itself straight. “I believe there’s hardly another case on record,” he said. “Well, as I was remarking, it’s only natural, now, that I should make him my secretary and bookkeeper. I’ve had a long talk with him about it--and about other things, too--and I guess there ain’t much doubt about our getting along together all right.” “And is it your honor’s intintion--Will--will he take over my functions as bard as well?” Cormac ventured to inquire. He added in deprecating tones: “Sure, they’ve always been considered hereditary.” “No; I think we’ll let the bard business slide for the time being,” answered The O’Mahony. “You see, I’ve been going along now a good many years without any poet, so I’ve got used to it. There was one fellow out at Plevna--an English newspaper man--who did compose some verses about me--he seemed to think they were quite funny--but I shot off one of his knee-pans, and that sort of put a damper on poetry, so far as I was concerned. However, we’ll see how your boy turns out. Maybe, if he takes a shine to that sort of thing--” “Then you’re to stay with us?” inquired Mother Agnes. “So grand ye are wid your decorations an’ your foreign titles--sure, they tell me you’re Chevalier an’ O’Mahony Bey both at wance--’t will be dull as ditch-water for you here.”