Father Conroy realized that he had been moving too fast.

“It’s not that I want you to, Mikie, it’s up to yourself.”

“I’ll take him, Father,” Mikie said obstinately, “to please ye.”

“Right! Well, then, Jimmy can ride your pony down tonight and leave him in my field, and he can ride the other one back. So that’s settled. All we have to do now is to make the bargain.”

“Sure I told ye I’d take him, Father. I don’t mind.”

Father Conroy paused a moment to gather his wits. Mikie was one of the thickest men he knew; it was extraordinary how long it took to get an idea through to him. Father Conroy couldn’t mention money; that would have been tantamount to selling what was not his to sell. He would have been quite satisfied with a contribution, even a fairly nominal one, to the parish funds.

“But he’s a good pony, Mikie; he’s worth a good few quid if he’s handled right.”

“To tell ye the truth, Father, I wouldn’t be expecting much.” Mikie gestured toward the pony under the ash tree. “I wouldn’t say he’s worth all that much, but sure he’d suit Drewitt’s lady fine.”

God give me patience, thought Father Conroy. He glanced quickly at Mikie, wondering, not for the first time, whether there might not be some slight glimmer of intelligence there, but he was reassured by the dull gaze that Mikie had fixed on him.

“Look, Mikie,” he began kindly, “you know when you’re selling a car?”

Mikie shook his head. “No, Father.” He was quite right, of course. The Donovans had had only the one car, bought secondhand seven years ago.

“Let’s suppose, then, you were to sell the oul’ car. You’d bring it along to the garage, and the man would take it as a trade-in against a new car.”

“Would he, Father?”

Well, would he? Any garage man that would take the Donovan car should have his head examined.

“D’ye think he would, Father?” There was a glint in the eyes at last. Mikie was interested.

“I don’t know whether he would or not. I was only supposing. Anyway, I wasn’t really talking about cars at all.”

“No, Father.” The glint faded.

“What I’m trying to say, Mikie, is that here you have a stumbling, spavined oul’ nag that’s maybe sixteen years...”

“Ah, no, Father, ah, no.”

“That’s long past his best anyway. And here you expect me to give you a fresh young three-year-old. Why the hell should I?”

Mikie took time to work it out. He sent a hand up again under the hat, cropping the bare pastures. His eyes roved the yard and lighted at last on the kitchen door. Turning, Father Conroy saw a gleam of white move within, his sister, Kate.