The spasm went as quickly as it had come. He lay back weakly, his cane chair creaking with the strain. Am I making good use of the life God gave me? Jesus, I’m trying to hold on to it, that’s all. A trickle of sweat ran down the side of his nose; he got out his handkerchief to mop his face, to wipe all around between collar and neck. It was the heat, that was all; the windows were all shut. Yet he could not summon enough energy to call on one of the men to open them. The meeting would be over soon, with the help of God. McEvilly’s mouth opened and closed soundlessly. He seemed to be annoying the three men from the council – the Chief Engineer was scribbling in a notebook, while the County Manager fed comments out of the side of his mouth.

A committee was being formed. Father Conroy watched helplessly as a few of the more solid farmers rose when called upon to take office. They were taking the parish out of his hands; that’s what they were doing. And he could only sit here, unable to move! Who was this fellow, anyway, this black stranger ordering his people about? What right has he to interfere? I hate him for being here. I hate his voice and the way he flings out his hands. I hate him because he can do things and I can’t.

Something was wrong. After the first volunteers (primed beforehand by Farrell, of course), nobody else rose to offer himself. Farrell looked panic-stricken as he read out the various station areas of the parish. The hall became quite silent; the people were aware that a decision about their future was to be given or refused. Even McEvilly put his head in his hands and glowered down the hall.

Then, slowly, Watch and Pray rose to his feet. There was a titter at the back of the hall, but the old fellow remained standing, leaning forward out of the school desk, like an old thorn tree, with his hat clamped on his head and the gray hair in wisps around his face.

“Will I do, Father?” he called, and when a great laugh burst out, he grinned and turned around to his mockers. “Sure, God is good. He’d send someone better if He could.”

“Put down his name,” McEvilly said. Then, sternly, he called out over the laughter, “How many young people do we have here between the ages of seventeen and twenty-one?”

He got them to stand up, which they did, one by one, reluctantly. When nine or ten were standing, he said, “Now, those of you who don’t want to serve on the committee may sit down.”

Some stood; some tried to sit, then rose slowly again. They looked around in confusion for their elders to direct them; they had never been called on for a decision before.