I am afraid Father Letheby is getting irritable. Perhaps he is studying too hard, and I don't spare him there, for he has the makings of a bishop in him; or perhaps it is that wretched coffee,—but he is losing that beautiful equanimity and enthusiasm which made him so attractive.  
"I cannot understand these people," he said to me, soon after his adventure with the "boys." "Such a compound of devotion and irreverence, meanness and generosity, cunning and child-like openness, was never seen. When I give Holy Communion with you, sir, on Sunday morning, my heart melts at the seraphic tenderness with which they approach the altar. That striking of the breast, that eager look on their faces, and that 'Cead milé failté, O Thierna!'[3] make me bless God for such a people; but then they appear to be waiting for the last words of the De Profundis, to jump up and run from the church as if in a panic. I can understand now how extemplo came to mean in a hurry, for if the roof were falling they could not rush from the building more promptly. Then an old woman will haggle over sixpence in buying a pair of chickens, and then come to you the following day and offer you in a stocking all she had saved in this world. I give them up. They are unintelligible."
 
From which I perceive that our good schoolmaster, experience, is trying the rod on this most hopeful and promising pupil.
 
"I hope you did not perceive any such abrupt and sudden contrasts in your protégé, Jem Deady," I said. "He has realized your ideas of a nineteenth century Goban Saor."[4]
 
He laughed loudly.
 
"There's no use in talking," he said. I notice he is coming down gradually from his polished periods to our village colloquialisms.
 
"Thou shalt lower to their level." God forbid! 'Twas bad enough with myself; but with this bright, accomplished fellow, 't would be too bad. He then told me with delight and chagrin, rage and laughter, his experiences with Jem.
 
It would appear that he made a solemn contract with this architect to stop the leak and restore the wall in St. Joseph's Chapel for twenty-five shillings. "'Twas too little," said Jem, "but what can you do with a gintleman that doesn't know a trowel from a spade." All materials were to be found by the contractor.
 
On Monday afternoon there was a knock at Father Letheby's door, and Jem was announced.
 
"Well, Jem," said Father Letheby, cheerfully, "getting on with the job?"
 
"Yes, your reverence, getting on grand," said Jem. "But I come to you about the laddher."
 
"The-e ladder?" echoed Father Letheby.
 
"Yes, your reverence," echoed Jem confidentially, "the laddher to get up on the roof, you know."
 
"But I understood you to say that you were getting through with this little job."
 
"Oh, of course, your reverence, we're getting through the preliminaries; but I must get on the roof, you know."
 
"I presume so," said Father Letheby, a little nettled, "and why don't you go there?"
 
"Does your reverence take me for an aigle, and want me to fly?"
 
"Well, not exactly," said Father Letheby, with a slight touch of flattery and sarcasm, "I am more disposed to take you for a nightingale!"
 
"Well, then, your reverence," said Jem, melting under the happy allusion, "a gintleman of your grate expayrince in building should know that, of all things else, a laddher is the wan thing necessary."
 
"Then you expect me to construct a ladder for your convenience?"
 
"Oh, not at all, your reverence; but if you gave me a little note up to the 'Great House,' I'd have it down while you'd be saying 'trapsticks.'"
 
There were some reasons why it was not at all desirable that he should ask favors from the "Great House"; but there was no help, and Jem got the letter.
 
"Now, this is all you require," said Father Letheby, with determination.
 
"That is all," said Jem. "Do you think I'd be throubling your reverence every minit. Long life to your reverence. May you be spared long in the parish."
 
About four o'clock that afternoon, Father Letheby was startled by a sudden commotion in the village. All the dogs were barking, and there are as many dogs in Kilronan as in Constantinople, and they are just as vicious; all the women were at the doors, rubbing their hands in their aprons; and the village loafers were all turned towards where a solemn procession was moving through the street. First came a gang of youngsters, singing, "Sure, We're the Boys of Wexford," then a popular ditty; then came two laborers, dragging along a ladder with as much show of expended energy as if it were a piece of heavy ordnance; then the cart on which the ladder was placed; then two more laborers behind, making desperate efforts to second the arduous endeavors of their mates in front; then a squadron of bare-legged girls, trying to keep the hair out of their eyes; and finally, the captain of the expedition, Jem Deady, leisurely walking along, with his hands in his pockets, a wheaten straw in his mouth, whilst he looked from cabin to cabin to receive the admiration of the villagers. It was expressed in various ways:—
 
"Wisha, thin, Jem, 't is you're the divil painted."
 
"Where is he taking it?"
 
"To the chapel."
 
"Wisha, thin, I thought the priests had some sinse."
 
"Whisht, 'uman, he's come around the new cojutor and got a job."
 
"Th' ould job?"
 
"Th' ould job!"
 
"Wisha, God help his poor wife now. 'T is she'll suffer," etc.
 
The men made desperate efforts as they passed Father Letheby's windows. He looked on hopelessly, as you look at a charade of which you have not got the key.
 
At six o'clock there was a deputation at the door, consisting of four laborers and the owner of the cart.
 
"We come for our day's hire, your reverence," said the foreman, unabashed.
 
"Oh, indeed," 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 'Larry McGee.'"
 
"Wisha, byes, wouldn't wan of ye run over to Mrs. Haley's for a pint. 'T is mighty dhry up here."
 
"Here ye are," said the chorus, ch............