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The Luck Of The Bogans
by
There was an outside stair to the two upper stories where the Bogans lived above their place of business, and late one evening, when the shop shutters were being clasped together below, Biddy Bogan heard a familiar heavy step and hastened to hold her brightest lamp in the doorway.
“God save you,” said his reverence Father Miles, who was coming up slowly, and Biddy dropped a decent courtesy and devout blessing in return. His reverence looked pale and tired, and seated himself wearily in a chair by the window–while Biddy coasted round by a bedroom door to “whist” at two wakeful daughters who were teasing each other and chattering in bed.
“‘T is long since we saw you here, sir,” she said, respectfully. “‘T is warm weather indade for you to be about the town, and folks sick an’ dyin’ and needing your help, sir. Mike’ll be up now, your reverence. I hear him below.”
Biddy had grown into a stout mother of a family, red-faced and bustling; there was little likeness left to the rose of Glengariff with whom Mike had fallen in love at early mass in Bantry church. But the change had been so gradual that Mike himself had never become conscious of any damaging difference. She took a fresh loaf of bread and cut some generous slices and put a piece of cheese and a knife on the table within reach of Father Miles’s hand. “I suppose ’tis waste of time to give you more, so it is,” she said to him. “Bread an’ cheese and no better will you ate I suppose, sir,” and she folded her arms across her breast and stood looking at him.
“How is the luck of the Bogans to-day?” asked the kind old man. “The head of the school I make no doubt?” and at this moment Mike came up the stairs and greeted his priest with reverent affection.
“You’re looking faint, sir,” he urged. “Biddy get a glass now, we’re quite by ourselves sir–and I’ve something for sickness that’s very soft and fine entirely.”
“Well, well, this once then,” answered Father Miles, doubtfully. “I’ve had a hard day.”
He held the glass in his hand for a moment and then pushed it away from him on the table. “Indeed it’s not wrong in itself,” said the good priest looking up presently, as if he had made something clear to his mind. “The wrong is in ourselves to make beasts of ourselves with taking too much of it. I don’t shame me with this glass of the best that you’ve poured for me. My own sin is in the coffee-pot. It wilds my head when I’ve got most use for it, and I’m sure of an aching pate–God forgive me for indulgence; but I must have it for my breakfast now, and then. Give me a bit of bread and cheese; yes, that’s what I want Bridget,” and he pushed the glass still farther away.
“I’ve been at a sorry place this night,” he went on a moment later, “the smell of the stuff can’t but remind me. ‘T is a comfort to come here and find your house so clean and decent, and both of you looking me in the face. God save all poor sinners!” and Mike and his wife murmured assent.
“I wish to God you were out of this business and every honest man with you,” said the priest, suddenly dropping his fatherly, Bantry good fellowship and making his host conscious of the solemnity of the church altar. “‘T is a decent shop you keep, Mike, my lad, I know. I know no harm of it, but there are weak souls that can’t master themselves, and the drink drags them down. There’s little use in doing away with the shops though. We’ve got to make young men strong enough to let drink alone. The drink will always be in the world. Here’s your bright young son; what are they teaching him at his school, do ye know? Has his characther grown, do ye think Mike Bogan, and is he going to be a man for good, and to help decent things get a start and bad things to keep their place? I don’t care how he does his sums, so I don’t, if he has no characther, and they may fight about beer and fight about temperance and carry their Father Matthew flags flying high, so they may, and it’s all no good, lessen we can raise the young folks up above the place where drink and shame can touch them. God grant us help,” he whispered, dropping his head on his breast. “I’m getting to be an old man myself, and I’ve never known the temptation that’s like a hounding devil to many men. I can let drink alone, God pity those who can’t. Keep the young lads out from it Mike. You’re a good fellow, you’re careful, but poor human souls are weak, God knows!”