This evening, the pipe was empty. He turned from inspecting his bullocks and blew gently through it as he looked at the pony, which a horse-loving old spinster had bequeathed recently to the parish building fund (in fact, he was all that was left when her estate had been sold and all the debts paid off). Father Conroy looked at him now regretfully. He was a fine animal – as the radio commercials put it, slim, trim, and brimful of energy – and Father Conroy had had to put him up as a prize in the draw for the Baptistry Fund.

It was bad enough not being able to keep him. What was most galling was the fact that he had been won by an Englishman called Drewitt, a new arrival, who had bought up some good, much-coveted land, who knew nothing at all about horseflesh and, by all accounts, had jibbed at paying half a crown for a ticket.

There were several possibilities to be considered: Drewitt might be persuaded to relinquish him as an ecumenical gesture; the draw could be declared invalid – it would be easy to do that on a technicality, since a wad of sold tickets had been found next day under a furze bush near the schoolhouse – but such an admission would have a bad effect on the proceeds of future parish draws; as a last resort, the animal could be stolen some night – Troys, the tinkers, would soon be passing through, buying for Donore fair, and they would hardly refuse him, if he was, so to speak, put in their way. But that would hardly be honest.

No, he thought, this won’t be easy, but I’m damned if Drewitt is going to have him without a fight.

As he turned back toward the house, he heard a tentative human cough from the direction of the road. It was getting dark and he could barely make out a white face looking in at him between the dark clumps of the furze bushes. Quickly he strode nearer, but he could not recognize who he was. “Good evening,” he called inquiringly.

The man ignored the greeting and simply called, “Am I on the road to Donore?” He had a strange voice, lifted to carry far; his vowels were cockney, slackened into Dublin.

Father Conroy was so intrigued that he made for the ditch and scrambled agilely out onto the road. He found himself looking down on a small figure in a shabby, overlong gaberdine, holding a little fiber case under his arm. A tramp, he thought, and then, no, maybe not; there’s some authority here, a dull metal that’s not easily bent.

“The road to Donore!” the man said. His tone, close up, was not unfriendly, just cold.

“D’ye know anyone there?” asked Father Conroy. The man shook his head. “Come on so, and I’ll see you as far as the cross below.”