“I know no good av him.”

“He’s not a bad fella a-tall.  Ye know he has a head as bald as an aig.  Well, he was goin’ to the Knights of Pythias ball, and was worrited about a fancy suit to wear; fer it appears that thim that goes must be rigged up.  He met the Father in Jim’s drug sthore on the corner, and he ups and axes him to tell him what to wear.”

“The omadhan!”

“Av coorse.”  Uncle Mac fell from righteousness.  “He shud not have axed such a question of a priest.  But the Father had him.  ’Ye want to be disguised?’ he said.  ‘That I do,’ said Brinn, takin’ off his hat to mop the top of his shiny pate.  ‘What’ll I wear?’ The Father giv wan glance at his head.  ‘Wear a wig,’ sez he.”

Ann chuckled, and fetched the old man the cup of tea he always expected.

“Faith, he did better nor that lasht week,” she confided. “’Twas auld Roberts at the hotel down by the deepo that got it.  His little dog does always be barkin’ at Rover.  The Father wint out walkin’ to the other side of the thracks to see the Widow McCabe’s Jacky about servin’ Mass on week days.  Roberts comes along with his snarlin’ little pup, and the imp bit at Rover’s heels.  Rover med wan bite at him, and he ran off yelpin’.  ‘I’ll shoot that big brute some day,’ sez Roberts to the Father.  ‘Don’t do that, Mr. Roberts,’ he sez, quiet-like.  ’The dogs understand each other.’  ‘I will, so,’ sez Roberts, ’and I kin shoot a human dog, too.’”

“What’s that?” Uncle Mac was on his feet in an instant.  “What’s that?  He said that to the Father?  I’ll murther him!”

“Ye n’adn’t,” said Ann quietly.  “The Father murthered him betther nor ye could, wid an answer.  ’Don’t let yer bad timper make ye thry to commit suicide, Mr. Roberts,’ sez he, and off he marched.  Sure the whole town is laffin’ at the mane auld snake.”

“Murther an’ Irish!” was all Uncle could say.  “An’ he says he’s Scotch.  ’Tisn’t in raison that a Scotchman could do it.”

Father Murray was ignorant of the admiration he had excited; he walked quickly toward the railway, for McCarthy lived “over the tracks.”  A man was standing at the door of the drug store as he passed.

“Good day to you, Elder,” he drawled.

“Oh, good day, Mr. Sturgis.  How are you?” Father Murray stopped to shake hands.  Mr. Sturgis was a justice of the peace and the wag of the town.  He always insisted on being elected to the office as a joke, for he was a well-to-do business man.

“Fine, fine, Elder,” he answered.  “Have you seen my new card?” He fumbled for one in his pocket and handed it over.  Father Murray read it aloud: 

JOHN JONATHAN STURGIS
Justice of the Peace

The only exclusive matrimonial magistrate.

Marriages solemnized promptly, accurately and
eloquently.

Fees Moderate. Osculation extra.

Office at the Flour Mill, which has, however, no
connection with my smooth-running Matrimonial Mill.