"Aren't you a son of Larry Toole's, young man?"
"I am, indeed, Mrs. Doran. I'm Phelim O'Toole, my mother says."
"I hope you're comin' to spake to the priest about your duty."
"Why, then, be gorra, I'm glad you axed me, so I am--for only you seen
the pinance in my face, you'd never suppose sich a thing. I want to make
my confishion to him, wid the help o' Goodness."
"Is there any news goin', Phelim?"
"Divil a much, barrin' what you hard yourself, I suppose, about Frank
Fogarty, that went mad yesterday, for risin' the meal on the poor, an'
ate the ears off himself afore anybody could see him."
"_Vick na hoiah_, Phelim; do you tell me so?"
"Why man o' Moses, is it possible you did not hear it, ma'am?"
"Oh, worra, man alive, not a syllable! Ate the ears off of himself!
Phelim, acushla, see what it is to be hard an the poor!"
"Oh, he was ever an' always the biggest nagar livin', ma'am. Ay, an'
when he was tied up, till a blessed priest 'ud be brought to maliwgue
the divil out of him, he got a scythe an' cut his own two hands off."
"No thin, Phelim!"
"Faitha, ma'am, sure enough. I suppose, ma'am, you hard about Biddy
Duignan?"
"Who is she, Phelim?"
"Why the misfortunate crathurs a daughter of her father's, ould Mick
Duignan, of Tavenimore."
"An' what about her, Phehm! What happened her?"
"Faix, ma'am, a bit of a mistake she met wid; but, anyhow, ould Harry
Connolly's to stand in the chapel nine Sundays, an' to make three
Stations to Lough Dergh for it.
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