"Don't speak to me in that tone, please. I am a Catholic, and I wish to see the priest."
The woman snorted; but before she could speak there came the sound of an opening door and a quick step on the linoleum of the little dark passage.
"What's all this?" said a voice, as the woman stepped back.
He was a big, florid young man, with yellow hair, flushed as if with sleep; his eyes were bright and tired-looking, and his collar was plainly unbuttoned at the back. Also, his cassock was unfastened at the throat and he bore a large red handkerchief in his hand. Obviously this had just been over his face.
Now, I do not blame this priest in the slightest. He had sung a late mass—which never agreed with him—and in his extreme hunger he had eaten two platefuls of hot beef, with Yorkshire pudding, and drunk a glass and a half of solid beer. And he had just fallen into a deep sleep before giving Catechism, when the footsteps and voices had awakened him. Further, every wastrel Catholic that came along this road paid him a call, and he had not yet met with one genuine case of want. When he had first come here he had helped beggars freely and generously, and he lived on a stipend of ninety pounds a year, out of which he paid his housekeeper fifteen.
"What do you want?" he said.
"May I speak to you, father?" said Frank.
"Certainly. Say what you've got to say."
"Will you help me with sixpence, father?"
The priest was silent, eyeing Frank closely.