When a brick tore a hole in the Orange drum our
Presbyterian pastor at once got up a bazaar for repairs to the chapel, and
Murphy won the finest silver tea-service this side of the Aran Islands.
Murphy knew no distinctions of race, creed or sex in the holy cause of
charity. When our Methodist minister, who is universally popular, as his
knowledge of a horse would be a credit to any denomination, got up an
Auction Bridge Drive in aid of the Anti-Gambling League, Murphy came home
with three pink antimacassars, a discourse by JEREMY TAYLOR and two months'
pay out of the pocket of McDougal, the organist, who seems to play cards by
ear. But Nemesis was lying in ambush for Murphy.
Three old ladies in Trim decided to get up a Tombola for the poor this
winter, and of course they sent Murphy a sheaf of tickets. As lotteries are
illegal they, being pious, hated them; anyway they decided to call it a
Tombola. They got the whole of Ireland to send them prizes, articles of
vertu and bric-a-brac, and any other old things that are of no use to
anybody, The carriage on the stuff and the printer's bill nearly ruined the
charitable ladies, but, as they said, the Tombola would pay all the
expenses, and if they could knock any more out of it the poor should have
it.
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