Soon he had no longer any need of their sympathy. The secondary-school course which they were completing was attacked so fiercely by him, swallowed up so completely, that it seemed (as one of his classmates put it) that he had been craving for the stuff all his life, that Cicero, Vergil, Euclid, and the rest were meat and drink to him. So quickly did he catch up on the younger boys, so far did he outdistance them, that at the end of his first year he was called to the president’s room and told that he had been recommended for admission to Maynooth.

“Maynooth, Father? Ah, no.”

The president looked up.

“Yes, why not? Mr.” – a glance at the papers before him – “Conroy.”

“Ah, not me, Father. Thanks very much.”

The president became interested. His manner warmed a little at such humility.

“But we’ve chosen you, Mr. Conroy. We want you to go.”

Conroy tried his yokel act, a bashful twisting of the fingers. “Sure, I don’t know, Father. You’d have to get a degree and all that.”

“Yes, of course.” The president was pleased – he had a batch of degrees from Maynooth himself. “That’s why we want you to go.”

“Ara, no, Father. I don’t know...”

“Oh, come now, Mr. Conroy. From what your professors say of you, I’m quite sure you’re capable of doing credit to yourself and to us, that is, if you continue to apply yourself with the same diligence you have shown here up to now.”

Conroy shook his head ruefully. “No, Father.”

“Why not? What’s the matter, young man? Are you so lacking in spirit? Why, this is a challenge which I should have thought an ambitious young man would leap to take up!”

Conroy fidgeted. “I’d just... rather not, Father.”

“But, Mr. Conroy, you can’t possibly refuse. Don’t you realize that a place like this...” He spread out his hands, laying the place flat, then hastily restored it. “...dedicated, as it is, to ideals and high standards, insofar, of course, as our resources allow, cannot possibly offer you the tradition, the breadth of vision, the... ah, style, which a great university...”

“I’m sorry, Father.”

“You’re trying me, Mr. Conroy, trying me very hard.”

“I’m sorry, Father, I didn’t come here for... for what you’re saying.”

“And for what, pray tell us, Mr. Conroy, did you come?”

With a shuffling of feet, a twisting of hands, Conroy muttered, “Ah, sure, I just came to be a priest.”

The president flushed deeply. He stared up at Conroy’s face, as if he could trap those deadpan features into some flicker of malevolence or mockery. But Conroy looked down at him in surprise and managed a timid half-smile.