“‘What makes you say,’ says Father James, who was more in airnest than the rest, ‘that my uncle won’t make me fit for the kingdom of heaven?’

“‘I had a pair of rasons for it, Jemmy,’ says the friar; ’one is, that he doesn’t understand the subject himself; another is, that you haven’t capacity for it, even if he did.  You’ve a want of natural parts—­a whackuuum here’ pointing to his forehead.

“‘I beg your pardon, Frank,’ says Father James ’I deny your premises, and I’ll now argue in Latin with you, if you wish, upon any subject you please.’

“‘Come, then,’ says the friar,—­’Kid eat ivy mare eat hay.’

“‘Kid—­what?’ says the other.

“‘Kid eat ivy mare eat hay,’ answers the friar.

“‘I don’t know what you’re at,’ says Father James, ’but I’ll argue in Latin with you as long as you wish.’

“‘Tut man,’ says Father Rooney, ’Latin’s for school-boys; but come, now, I’ll take you in another language—­I’ll try you in Greek—­In-mud-eel-is in-clay-none-is in-fir-tar-is in-oak-no ne-is.’

“The curate looked at him, amazed, not knowing what answer to make.  At last says he, ’I don’t profess to know Greek, bekase I never larned it—­but stick to the Latin, and I’m not afeard of you.’

“‘Well, then,’ says the friar, ’I’ll give you a trial at that—­Afflat te canis ter—­Forte dux fel flat in guttur.’

“‘A flat tay-canisther—­Forty ducks fell flat in the gutthers!’ says Father James,—­’why that’s English!’

“‘English!’ says the friar, ’oh, good-bye to you, Mr. Secular; ’if that’s your knowledge of Latin, you’re an honor to your tachers and to your cloth.’

“Father Corrigan now laughed heartily at the puzzling the friar gave Father James.  ‘James,’ says he, ’never heed him; he’s only pesthering you with bog-Latin; but, at any rate to do him justice, he’s not a bad Scholar, I can tell you that....  Your health, Prank, you droll crathur—­your health.  I have only one fault to find with you, and that is, that you fast and mortify yourself too much.  Your fasting has reduced you from being formerly a friar of very genteel dimensions to a cut of corpulency that smacks strongly of penance—­fifteen stone at least.

“‘Why,’ says the friar, looking down quite plased, entirely, at the cut of his own waist, Uch, among ourselves, was no trifle, and giving a growl of a laugh—­the most he ever gave, ’if what you pray here benefits you in the next life as much as what I fast does for me in this, it will be well for the world in general Michael.’

“‘How can you say, Frank,’ says Father ’with such a carkage as that, you’re a poor friar?  Upon my credit, when you die, I think the angels will have a job of it in wafting you upwards.”

“’Jemmy, man, was it you that said it?—­why, my light’s beginning to shine upon you, or you never could have got out so much,’ says Father Rooney, putting his hands over his brows, and looking up toardst him; ’but if you ever read scripthur, which I suppose you’re not overburdened with, you would know that it says, “Blessed are the poor in spirit,” but not blessed are the poor in flesh—­now, mine is spiritual poverty.’