“I’ll tell you why I won’t go,” said the priest. “There was one time when I was a curate in Dublin, I used to be attending one of the hospitals. People would be brought in suffering from accidents and dying, and you wouldn’t know what they were, Catholic and Protestant. I got into the way of anointing them all while they were unconcious, feeling it could do them no harm, even if they were Protestants. Well, one day I anointed a poor fellow that they told me was dying. What did he do but recover. It turned out then that he was a Protestant, and, what’s more, an Orangeman, and when he heard what was done he gave me all sorts of abuse. He said his mother wouldn’t rest easy in her grave when she heard of it, and more talk of the same kind.”
“This is quite a different sort of case,” said the doctor. “This man’s not dying or the least likely to die.”
“I’ll not go near him,” said the priest.
“I’m sorry to hear you say that, Father. The Rev. Mr. Jackson is coming up, and he’s prepared to ask the man what religion he is in ancient Greek—ancient Greek, mind you, no less. It wouldn’t be a nice thing to have it said about the town that the Protestant minister could talk ancient Greek and that you weren’t fit to say a few words in Latin. Come, now, Father Henaghan, for the credit of the Church say you’ll do it.”
This last argument weighed greatly with the priest. Dr. Whitty saw his advantage and pressed the matter home.
“I’ll put you down,” he said, “for Spanish and Italian.”
“You may put me down if you like, but I tell you he won’t know a word I speak to him.”
“Try him,” said the doctor.
“I’ll not be making a public fool of myself to please you,” said the priest. “If I do it at all I’ll have no one with me in the room at the time, mind that now.”