Standing there, vaguely put out by his inability to see the face of the old man, he noticed a faint trail of dust rising along the line of the road. Next moment, a car came into view. It emerged from between the hedgerows and recklessly took the old humpbacked bridge without slackening speed. On it came, dusty as the road itself, with that squinting, rodent look of the Volks hastening up and over the contours of the ground. He did not recognize whose it was, until in the sudden silence after it stopped at the gate, he saw through the dusty windshield a head of gray hair bent over the wheel. For a moment the head lifted and he glimpsed the powerful, arched nose of Father Conroy; then it sank again, as if Conroy were reading or searching for something on the floor of the car. Thinking perhaps that he had not yet been seen, Father Mahon turned quickly away between the trees and toward the back of the house. There was a surprisingly long delay before he heard the car door slam and then the creak of the gate.

He was timid, Father Mahon, and he had never been at ease with Conroy. All his life, ever since his student days, he had avoided Conroy’s eye, fearful of drawing some judgment on himself, one of those Conroy remarks which were remembered forever in the diocese. And so he waited awhile by the yard gate until Bat Cullen returned from ministering to the setter. They talked for a while, or rather Bat talked about one of his dogs which a parishioner had entered for him in a race and which had not been given a “fair do.” It was his only trial, as a priest, that he was not allowed to attend the dogtrack himself and see that his dogs were given fair dos.

He stumped off at last when Father Mahon’s sympathy proved too contrived even for his comfort. At the corner of the house, he halted at the sight of the gray Volkswagen parked across the gateway. “Tom Conroy! Well!” He turned, grinning with delight. “Why didn’t you tell me he was here?”

Father Mahon gave a deprecating smile and a shrug, as if to say, I kept it as a surprise, Bat.

“Come on in, then, and we’ll see what the oul’ scoundrel is up to!”

“Go on in yourself,” said Father Mahon. “I’ll stroll around a bit. Work up an appetite.”

Bat hurried on, trousers flapping over loose green socks (he always seemed in danger of wading out of his clothes). He was halted by a sudden hoarse cry from the direction of the house.

“What’s that?”

They waited a moment, listening, but there was no sound, only the steady swish of the scythe, somewhere between the trees.

“Must be O’Hara, calling us in.” Father Mahon was trying to persuade himself. The cry had frightened him.