t
the rate of thruppence a-piece, probably was a more lucrative branch of
his business, though the correspondence of the Town was not large enough
to put his services in frequent requisition. Partly on this account, and
partly because he was by nature a strong conservative, Mr. Tarpey set
his face sternly against the spread of education. He was distressed by
the appearance of any symptoms of it among the neighbouring youth, even
when it took the form of an inquiry for his limp paper and skewer-like
pens. In fact, the diffusion of penmanship was what he most seriously
deprecated and discountenanced. "The Lord knows," his main argument ran,
"the foolery them spalpeens 'ill be gabbin' permiscuis would sicken you,
widout givin' them the chance to be sittin' down aisy and invintin' it."
His wife once suggested that "the crathurs might be more sinsible like,
when they were takin' time to considher themselves." But Isaac said,
"Pigs may fly."

At the time when Dan came for his paper the office was occupied by Norah
Fottrell, engaged in dictating a letter to her sweetheart, Stevie Flynn,
away in Manchester. The composition still looked discouragingly brief,
despite Isaac's big, flourishing hand, yet Norah's ideas had already
run so short that she was staring in quest of more up among the cobwebby
rafters over her head.

"You might say," she said, after a pause, "that I hope he's gettin' his
health where he is."

"I've said that twyste before," Isaac objected severely.

"Och, murdher, have you?" said Norah, reverting to the rafters with a
distracted gaze.

"Couldn't you tell him the price your father got for the last baste he
sould?" said Isaac.

"Bedad, I might so," said Norah; "'twas on'y thirty shillin', but it 'ud
take up a good bit of room. And look-a, Mr. Tarpey, couldn't we lave the
rest of the page clane? As like as not the bosthoon wouldn't be
botherin' his head spellin' out the half of it."

The adoption of this course expedited Norah's love-letter to a happy
close. But when Dan took her place at the counter Isaac assured him, not
without satisfaction, that "they were cliver and clane run out of all
their writin' paper, barrin' it might be a sort of butt-ind of loose
sheets left litterin' at the bottom of the drawer, and they that thick
wid dust you could be plantin' pitaties in them, forby gettin' mildewed
lyin' up in the damp so long."

It was not so much compunction at Dan's disappointed countenance as an