So Jimmy was running for office. And party politics had still to be fought. Father Conroy glanced at Farrell, who looked upset, and at McEvilly, who stared stony-faced down the hall. Well, it was their fight; it was up to them to keep the politicians’ paws off the committee. Good luck to them; it’s got nothing to do with me.

Yet, as he listened to his nephew’s speech, Father Conroy sank his head in shame, trying not to think of what was being said, not to hear the applause for such stolen gems as, “When the history of Kilbride comes to be written, this will stand out as our moment of decision, our finest hour,” and “Ask not what Kilbride can do for you, but rather what you can do for Kilbride!” Wild and heartfelt applause greeted this last flourish as Jimmy sat down. The meeting, thank God, was over.

Father McEvilly clapped very briefly, then went down to gather the new committee together. He spent a long time among them, questioning, listening, making jokes, a different man altogether from the dour speaker he had been on the platform. The young people crowded in, eager to be assigned their tasks. Already they were becoming conscious of themselves as a group with a certain power to be wielded.

When the hall was cleared, the priests and official visitors were transported to Father Farrell’s house, where tea was being served. Father Conroy found himself penned in a corner by the three wise men from the county council, who stood sipping tea while they listened to old Toomey, the schoolteacher.

“Covered in evergreens,” Toomey was saying. He sat on the pouf, clasping his knees to him. All his features drooped; even his glasses, the sole support of his face, slid occasionally down his nose and had to be pushed back with the tip of his finger.

“Yes, but you can’t have—” the Chief Agricultural Officer protested.

“All the hills clad in virgin forests of spruce and pine. And little villages in the clearings, such as you get, I’m told, in the Black Forest of Germany. We’d have charcoal plants too, and plastics, for which I understand timber is the primary raw material. The logs could be floated down the larger rivers to vast sawmills, such as you get in Scandinavia and in the eastern states of Canada. Or is it the western states?”

“The eastern, I think,” said the Chief Agricultural Officer, “but tell me—”

“No matter, I think it’s both. In the river mouths, we’d set up shipyards for the manufacture of fishing boats. Oak, of course, has historically been the timber most favored... but I’m sure that pine...”

“Look,” the Chief Agricultural Officer interjected, “I can get you Sitka spruce at a special rate of five shillings for five hundred, if you’d take on the job of organizing a planting scheme.”