“If only we had a gun!” muttered Father Conroy. There was a laugh, which was stifled almost at once, at sight of him, staring solemnly into the camera. How could they laugh at him? He was so much stronger than they; he put himself so fearlessly at their mercy.

Soon afterward, still mystified, sullen, exasperated, they filed out. They could not even refuse to return his cheerful good night.

“Well, that’s that!” he said to Father Conroy as he got into his car. “It went very well, yes, it went splendidly. A public man has to get out among the people. Keep in touch!”

“You forgot the prayers,” murmured Father Conroy.

“Ah, yes, I did, mind you. I forgot the prayers. That’s not like me now, to do that.” He looked down a moment, fiddled with the medals on his chain. “I’ll tell you, Tom, between ourselves, it may be my last appearance.”

“What do you mean?” Was James – (yes, say it!) – was James on the way out too? Sick? Afraid? The poor man!

“I’m retiring.”

Was that all? Father Conroy turned away impatiently. James had been threatening to retire for years.

“I am, Tom. Now, there’s no use in trying to make me change my mind, because I won’t do it. I think it’s time for the youth to take over. Amn’t I right, now?”

Father Conroy nodded. Still, it wouldn’t be the same, bastard and all as he was, it wouldn’t be the same without a James Conroy. All those years, not (as James himself said) of service to the community, but of getting the better of the “other fellow” – what were they for? Father Conroy remembered pictures of James breathing over the shoulder of the poll clerk, trying to check the “other fellow’s” votes, ready to pounce on one which had the stamp missing, of James bending down, head cocked, to count the bundles of fifty ballot papers as they were placed on the table – all pointless as regards the final result, but showing the man’s concentration on every detail of his profession of winning votes. There were dubious stories, too – the illiterate old woman, for instance, who was held by two of his men outside the polling booth and made to repeat his name over and over, so that when she was at last pushed in to vote and the presiding officer began to read over the names for her, she rose, like a trout, to the name of Conroy. What was it for, all that dedication? “Is it for Jimmy? For Jimmy to take over?”

“You’ve got it, Tom! The boy’s made for it, just made for it. I thought of bringing him along tonight, but I thought, damn it, if things go against me (I didn’t think they would, but they could have), if they go against me, he’d have a better chance starting off on his own.”