ar her in these breeches. My elbows, too,
are out o' this ould coat, bad luck to it! An' as for a waistcoat, why,
I dunna but it's a sin to call what I'm wearin' a waistcoat at all. Thin
agin--why, blood alive, sure I can't go to her barefooted, an' I dunna
but it 'ud be dacenter to do that same, than to step out in sich excuses
for brogues as these. An' in regard o' the stockins', why, I've pulled
them down, strivin' to look dacent, till one 'ud think the balls o' my
legs is at my heels."

"The sorra word's in that but thruth, any how," observed the father;
"but what's to be done? For we have no way of gettin' them."

"Faith, I don't know that," said Phelim. "What if we'd borry? I could
get the loan of a pair of breeches from Dudley Dwire, an' a coat from
Sam Appleton. We might thry Billy Brady for a waistcoat, an' a pair of
stockings. Barny Buckram-back, the pinsioner, 'ud lend me his pumps; an'
we want nothing now but a hat."

"Nothin' under a Caroline 'ud do, goin' there," observed the father.

"I think Father O'Hara 'ud oblige me wid the loan o' one for a day or
two;" said Phelim; "he has two or three o' them, all as good as ever."

"But, Phelim," said the father, "before we go to all this trouble, are
you sure you could put your comedher on Miss Pattherson?"

"None o' your nonsense," said Phelim, "don't you know I could? I hate
a man to be puttin' questions to me, when he knows them himself. It's a
fashion you have got, an' you ought to dhrop it."

"Well thin," said the father, "let us set about it to-morrow. If we can
borry the clo'es, thry your luck."

Phelim and the father, the next morning, set out each in a different
direction, to see how far they could succeed on the borrowing system.
The father was to make a descent on Dudley Dwire for the breeches, and
appeal to the generosity of Sam Appleton for the coat. Phelim himself
was to lay his case before the priest, and to assail Buckram-back, the
pensioner, on his way home, for the brogues.

When Phelim arrived at the priest's house, he found none of the family
up but the housekeeper. After bidding her good morrow, and being desired
to sit down, he entered into conversation with the good woman, who felt
anxious to know the scandal of the whole parish.

"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,