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“Soombody, whoiver it was, thrun a cat down in Tom Auley’s well las’ night,” announced Corny Sullivan with more than usual gravity.

“They’ll have no luck thin,” says Jerry. “Anybody that meddles wid wather ‘ill have no luck while they live, faix they ‘ont thin.”

“Tom Auley’s been up watchin’ this three nights now,” confides the other old gossip. “Thim dirty b’y’s troublin’ his pigs in the sthy, and having every stramash about the place, all for revinge upon him for gettin’ the police afther thim when they sthole his hins. ‘T was as well for him too, they’re dirty bligards, the whole box and dice of them.”

“Whishper now!” and Jerry pokes his great head closer to his friend. “The divil of ’em all is young Dan Bogan, Mike’s son. Sorra a bit o’ good is all his schoolin’, and Mike’s heart ‘ll be soon broke from him. I see him goin’ about wid his nose in the air. He’s a pritty boy, but the divil is in him an’ ‘t is he ought to have been a praste wid his chances and Father Miles himself tarkin and tarkin wid him tryin’ to make him a crown of pride to his people after all they did for him. There was niver a spade in his hand to touch the ground yet. Look at his poor father now! Look at Mike, that’s grown old and gray since winther time.” And they turned their eyes to the bar to refresh their memories with the sight of the disappointed face behind it.

There was a rattling at the door-latch just then and loud voices outside, and as the old men looked, young Dan Bogan came stumbling into the shop. Behind him were two low fellows, the worst in the town, they had all been drinking more than was good for them, and for the first time Mike Bogan saw his only son’s boyish face reddened and stupid with whiskey. It had been an unbroken law that Dan should keep out of the shop with his comrades; now he strode forward with an absurd travesty of manliness, and demanded liquor for himself and his friends at his father’s hands.

Mike staggered, his eyes glared with anger. His fatherly pride made him long to uphold the poor boy before so many witnesses. He reached for a glass, then he pushed it away–and with quick step reached Dan’s side, caught him by the collar, and held him. One or two of the spectators chuckled with weak excitement, but the rest pitied Mike Bogan as he would have pitied them.

The angry father pointed his son’s companions to the door, and after a moment’s hesitation they went skulking out, and father and son disappeared up the stairway. Dan was a coward, he was glad to be thrust into his own bedroom upstairs, his head was dizzy, and he muttered only a feeble oath. Several of Mike Bogan’s customers had kindly disappeared when he returned trying to look the same as ever, but one after another the great tears rolled down his cheeks. He never had faced despair till now; he turned his back to the men, and fumbled aimlessly among the bottles on the shelf. Some one came, in unconscious of the pitiful scene, and impatiently repeated his order to the shopkeeper.

“God help me, boys, I can’t sell more this night!” he said brokenly. “Go home now and lave me to myself.”

They were glad to go, though it cut the evening short. Jerry Bogan bundled his way last with his two canes. “Sind the b’y to say,” he advised in a gruff whisper. “Sind him out wid a good captain now, Mike,’t will make a man of him yet.”

A man of him yet! alas, alas–for the hopes that had been growing so many years. Alas for the pride of a simple heart, alas for the day Mike Bogan came away from sunshiny old Bantry with his baby son in his arms for the sake of making that son a gentleman.