something queer . . . there was something uncanny about
him. I'll tell you my opinion. . . ."

He began to puff at his pipe, no doubt arranging his opinion
in his mind. Tiresome old fool! When we knew him first he
used to be rather interesting, talking of faints and worms; but I
soon grew tired of him and his endless stories about the distil-
lery.

"I have my own theory about it," he said. "I think it was one
of those . . . peculiar cases. . . . But it's hard to say. . . ."

He began to puff again at his pipe without giving us his
theory. My uncle saw me staring and said to me:

"Well, so your old friend is gone, you'll be sorry to hear."

"Who?" said I.

"Father Flynn."

"Is he dead?"

"Mr. Cotter here has just told us. He was passing by the
house."

I knew that I was under observation so I continued eating as
if the news had not interested me. My uncle explained to old
Cotter.

"The youngster and he were great friends. The old chap
taught him a great deal, mind you; and they say he had a great
wish for him."

"God have mercy on his soul," said my aunt piously.

Old Cotter looked at me for a while. I felt that his little
beady black eyes were examining me but I would not satisfy
him by looking up from my plate. He returned to his pipe and
finally spat rudely into the grate.

"I wouldn't like children of mine," he said, "to have too
much to say to a man like that."

"How do you mean, Mr. Cotter?" asked my aunt.

"What I mean is," said old Cotter, "it's bad for children. My
idea is: let a young lad run about and play with young lads of
his own age and not be . . . Am I right, Jack?"

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