About
the hottest time of the dispute, I was to Halifax, and who should
I meet but Father John O'Shaughnessy, a Catholic Priest. I had met
him afore in Cape Breton, and had sold him a clock. Well, he was
a-leggin' it off hot foot. 'Possible!' says I, 'Father John, is that
you? Why, what on airth is the matter of you? What makes you in such
an everlastin' hurry, driven away like one ravin' distracted mad?' 'A
sick visit,' says he; 'poor Pat Lanigan--him that you mind to Bradore
Lake--well he's near about at the p'int of death.' 'I guess not,'
said I, 'for I jist heerd tell he was dead.' Well, that brought him
up all standin', and he 'bouts ship in a jiffy, and walks a little
way with me, and we got a-talkin' about this very subject. Says he,
'What are you, Mr. Slick?' Well, I looks up to him and winks--'A
Clockmaker,' says I. Well he smiled, and says he, 'I see;' as much
as to say I hadn't ought to have axed that 'ere question at all,
I guess, for every man's religion is his own, and nobody else's
business. 'Then,' says he, 'you know all about this country. Who
do folks say has the best of the dispute?' Says I, 'Father John,
it's like the battles up to Canada lines last war, each side claims
victory; I guess there ain't much to brag on nary way, damage done on
both sides, and nothin' gained, as far as I can learn.
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