I gave him his check for the Temple Ben-David and went on to the rectory of St. Patrick's-by-the-Gashouse, where I asked for the priest.
"Sure, Father Flanagan's celebrating Mass," the aged housekeeper rebuked me.
"I'll wait," I told her. "I have a contribution for the church. I must give it to him personally."
"Glory be!" she remarked, and withdrew, muttering.
Father Flanagan was a burly, well-built young Irish-American with a friendly smile and a crushing handshake.
"Mrs. Casey tells me you have something for the church, Mr.—"
"My name's Tompkins, Father. I have a check for a thousand dollars. I'll give it to you now. There are no strings to it but I'd like to ask you to help me."
"Well, I'll be—You know, Mr. Tompkins," Father Flanagan told me, "just this morning at breakfast Mrs. Casey said she was praying that we'd finish raising the money for the new altar before the Bishop's visit, and here it is. Isn't that wonderful, now?"
"There you are, Father," I told him, "and welcome to it."
"Thank you, Mr. Tompkins," the priest said simply. "I shall remember you in my prayers and so, no doubt, will Mrs. Casey. You're not a Catholic, of course?"