‘Then you’ve given up the idea of finishing your divinity course?’ said the priest. ‘I’m not blaming you in the least. There’s men that studying suits, and there’s men that it doesn’t. I never was much of a one for books myself.’
He sighed heavily, perhaps at the recollection of his own struggles with the mysteries of theology in his Maynooth student days. Then he walked over and closed the door, returned, drew a chair close to Hyacinth, and spoke in the tone of a man who imparts an important secret.
‘Did you hear that Thady Durkan’s giving up the fishing? Since he broke his arm he declares he’ll never step aboard the boat again. You know the St. Bridget. She’s not one of the biggest boats, but she’s a very lucky one. She made over five hundred pounds last year, besides the share the Board took. She was built at Baltimore, and the Board spent over two hundred pounds on her, nets and gear and all. There’s only one year more of instalments to pay off the price of her, and Thady has the rest of the men bought out. There’s nobody owns a stick or a net or a sail of her except himself, barring, of course, what’s due to the Board.’
Hyacinth was sufficiently acquainted with the system on which the Congested Districts Board provides the Connaught fishermen with boats and nets to understand Father Moran’s rather involved statement of Durkan’s financial position. He did not yet grasp why all this information should have been conveyed to him in such a solemn and mysterious tone.
‘You might have the St. Bridget,’ said the priest, ‘for one hundred and fifty pounds down.’
He paused to let the full glory of the situation lay hold upon Hyacinth. Perhaps he expected an outburst of delight and surprise, but none came.
‘Mind you,’ he said, ‘there’s others looking for her. The men that worked with Thady are thinking of making him an offer, and I dare say the Board would be glad enough to have the boat owned among them; but I can put in a word myself both with Thady and the inspector. Faith, the times is changed since I was a young man. I can remember when a priest was no more thought of than a barefooted gossure out of a bog, and now there isn’t a spalpeen of a Government inspector but lifts his hat to me in the street. Oh, a note from me will go a good way with the Board, and you’ll not miss the chance for want of my good word—I promise you that.’
‘Thank you,’ said Hyacinth.
‘Mind you, there’s a good thing to be made out of her. But sure you know that as well as I do myself, and maybe better. What do you say now?’
‘I’ll think it over,’ said Hyacinth, ‘and whatever comes of it I’ll be greatly obliged to you.’