light and a muggy chill dampness. He slung along the half-yard track under the bank, and came to the two dredges that sat at the corner, glaring electric light, and pouring out muddy water unendingly. Ormond cursed their fat squat prosperity, swung himself up to the gorse and broom of the hill-top, took the township street at its lower end, and hammered on Father Denis’ door, A candle glimmered in the dark passage, and Ormond spoke to the glint of it.
“Anyone here. Father? I’m coming in to talk.”
The priest’s quick ear caught the tension in Ormond’s tone. He laid a fat hand on the door, and shut it.
“There is not, then. I’m just after finishing me tea—you’ll wait for a pipe, Ormond? Sure, you’ve let me smoke alone these ten nights. Busy? Uh-h! When were ye anything else? Not that chair. Ye cracked it last toime wid yer fooleries—there’s tobacco behind ye, man. Aye; that tin’s the brand ov yer own.”
Ormond lit up with unsteady hands, drawing the life in broken, impatient puffs. Father Denis lowered his bulk into the worn leathern chair opposite, and made a blue veil of smoke between the two. For a good pipe loosens the tongue and shelters the face: and these are the two essentials for an unburdening of the spirit.
