" said Father Letheby, "I am not aware that you are in my
employment."

"We dhrew the laddher down from the Great House to the chapel; and I may
tell your reverence 't was a tough job. I wouldn't do it again for five
shillings."

"Nor I, ayther."

"Nor I, ayther."

"Nor I, ayther, begor."

"Well, look here," said Father Letheby, "I'm not going to submit to this
infamous extortion. I didn't employ you, and I acknowledge no
responsibility whatsoever."

"That manes you won't pay us, your reverence?" said the foreman, in a
free translation.

"Precisely," said Father Letheby, closing the door abruptly.

He heard them murmuring and threatening outside, but took no notice of
them. Later in the evening he took his usual stroll. He found these
fellows loafing around the public house. They had been denouncing him
vigorously, and occasionally a Parthian shaft came after him:--

"Begor, 't is quare, sure enough."

"Begor, we thought the priests couldn't do any wrong."

But when he turned the corner he met a good deal of sympathy:--

"Wisha, begor, 't is your reverence was wanted to tache these
blackguards a lesson."

"Wisha, 't was God sent you," etc., etc.

Now, one shilling would have given these fellows lashings of porter, and
secured their everlasting fealty and an unlimited amount of popularity.
I told him so.

"Never," he said, drawing back his head, and with flashing eyes, "I
shall never lend myself to so demoralizing a practice. We must get these
people out of the mire."

The next day, he thought he was bound to see how Jem was progressing
with his contract. He went down to the little church and passed into the
sacristy, whence he had a clear view of the roof of St. Joseph's Chapel.
Jem was there, leisurely doing nothing, and on the graveyard wall were
eight men, young and old, surveying the work and offering sundry
valuable suggestions. They took this shape:--

"Wisha, Jem, take the world aisy. You're killing yerself, man."

"What a pity he's lost his wice (voice); sure 't was he was able to rise
a song."

"Dey say," interjected a young ragamuffin, "dat Fader Letheby is going
to take Simon Barry into his new choir. Simon is a tinner, and Jem is
only a bannitone."

"Hould your tongue, you spalpeen," said a grown man, "Jem can sing as
well as twinty Simons, dat is if he could only wet his whistle."

"Thry dat grand song, Jem, ''T is Years Since Last We Met.'"

"No, no," said the chorus, "give us