Two
I
Mrs. Gerahty opened the door of the presbytery in her usual sharp poun-cing style. It was less like answering a bell, than a triumphant¹ manoeuvreexpressing the sentiment “I’ve caught you this time!”
“Well now, and what would you be wanting?” she demanded belliger-ently.
There was a boy on the doorstep, a very negligible looking boy—a boynot easily noticeable nor easily remembered—a boy like a lot of otherboys. He sniffed² because he had a cold in his head.
“Is this the priest’s place?”
“Is it Father Gorman you’re wanting?”
“He’s wanted,” said the boy.
“Who wants him and where and what for?”
“Benthall Street. Twenty-three. Woman as says she’s dying. Mrs. Cop-pins sent me. This is a Carthlick place all right, isn’t it? Woman says thevicar won’t do.”
Mrs. Gerahty reassured³ him on this essential point, told him to stopwhere he was and retired⁴ into the presbytery. Some three minutes later atall elderly priest came out carrying a small leather case in his hand.
“I’m Father Gorman,” he said. “Benthall Street? That’s round by the rail-way yards, isn’t it?”
“’Sright. Not more than a step, it isn’t.”
They set out together, the priest walking with a free striding step.
“Mrs.— Coppins, did you say? Is that the name?”
“She’s the one what owns the house. Lets rooms, she does. It’s one of thelodgers wants you. Name of Davis, I think.”
“Davis. I wonder now. I don’t remember—”
“She’s one of you all right. Carthlick, I mean. Said as no vicar would do.”
The priest nodded. They came to Benthall Street in a very short time.
The boy indicated a tall dingy⁵ house in a row of other tall dingy houses.
“That’s it.”
“Aren’t you coming in?”
“I don’t belong. Mrs. C. gave me a bob to take the message.”
“I see. What’s your name?”
“Mike Potter.”
“Thank you, Mike.”

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