N board the Granuaile Mr. Willoughby showed himself a courteous host. He took Father Mulcrone to a cabin and offered to provide him with anything he wanted. But the priest, having foreseen that he would sleep elsewhere than in his own bed, had with him a small bag which contained all that he required. Higginbotham and Meldon were put into another cabin. The party assembled in the saloon and dinner was served.
"You do yourself pretty well on this boat," said Meldon as he tasted the soup. "The Major and I have been living principally on sardines and tinned brawn. Higginbotham gets a lobster now and then. I suppose you have more lobsters than you care about in the course of the summer, Father Mulcrone?"
"I get plenty," said the priest. "Lobsters, potatoes, and tea. They're the easiest things to get on Inishmore."
After this the conversation languished. Mr. Willoughby was disappointed. He expected an amusing dinner. He found himself obliged to talk on dull subjects to Higginbotham, who was too much overawed by the company of a Chief Secretary to do more than make respectful replies. Meldon said a word in praise of each dish he tasted, and Father Mulcrone supplemented what he said in the manner of a man who seconds a vote of thanks. Otherwise, neither of the two clergymen talked. They were both hungry. They were both accustomed to take their meals alone. They both regarded the eating of a good dinner as a serious business, demanding undivided attention. Mr. Willoughby, tired of Higginbotham, undertook a monologue, and kept it going quietly until dinner was over and cigars were lit.
Then Father Mulcrone told a story. Meldon capped it with another. Father Mulcrone replied with a better one. Meldon outwent it. The stories became more and more extravagant. Mr. Willoughby looked from one clergyman to the other and laughed heartily. Higginbotham giggled convulsively in a corner. Neither of the clergymen even smiled. With perfectly grave faces, in tones which would have suited a scientific lecture, they narrated absurdity after absurdity. It was Meldon who reached the climax, who told a story so monstrously improbable that Father Mulcrone gave up the attempt to better it.
"For a young man," said the priest, "and I wouldn't say you were more than seven-and-twenty"
"I'll be that in three weeks, if I live so long," said Meldon.
"You've a deal of experience of this country and the ways of the people."
"For the matter of that you've seen a thing or two yourself."
"I have; but when I was your age I didn't know the half of what you do."
It was a handsome tribute. Meldon appreciated it. He raised his glass of whisky and water, nodded to Father Mulcrone and said—
"May the devil fly away with the roof of the house where you and I aren't welcome."
"I consider myself fortunate," said Mr. Willoughby, "in having as my guests to-night two men with the knowledge of Ireland which you possess. I'm learning more from your conversation than from all the Blue Books I ever read."
"I think we may understand from that remark," said Father Mulcrone, "that there's no danger of the slates being taken off the Lodge in the Phœnix while you're in it."
"You'll be welcome there, either of you," said Mr. Willoughby, "while I hold office. You'll be all the more welcome if you come together."
"We'll do it," said Meldon.
"What are the authorities of your Churches thinking of," said Mr. Willoughby, "when they leave you a curate, Mr. Meldon, and you no more than a parish priest, Father Mulcrone?"
"I'd be well off if I was that itself. It's a C.C. I am, and so far as I know it's a C.C. I'm likely to remain."
"You ought," said Mr. Willoughby, "to be bishops at least, both of you. If I had the arranging of these things you'd be archbishops. Why aren't you?"
"I haven't reached the canonical age," said Meldon. "You can't be a bishop till you're thirty. I've three years more to wait."