Free The Keys of the Kingdom by A. J. Cronin

rolled the cigar across his mouth. ‘As a matter of fact, I had,’ he cocked his eye, significantly, ‘I have a announcement … a important announcement I want to make. I’ll say a few words later, since you press me.’
    Led by Polly as a kind of overture to the main event, the children began to play Halloween games – first snapdragon, scrambling for the flat blue raisins, ablaze with spirit, on a big china dish, then duck-apple, dropping a fork from between the teeth over the back of a chair into a tub of swimming apples.
    At seven o’clock the ‘gowks’ came in: working lads from the neighbourhood, with soot-blackened faces and grotesque attire, mumming their way around the district, singing for sixpences, in the strange tradition of All Hallows Eve. They knew how to please Ned. They sang ‘Dear Little Shamrock’, ‘ Kathleen Mavourneen’, and ‘Maggie Murphy’s Home’. Largesse was distributed. They clattered out. ‘Thank you, Mr Bannon! Up the Union! Good night, Ned!’
    ‘Good lads. Good lads all of them!’ Ned rubbed his hands, his eye still moist with Celtic sentiment. ‘Now, Polly, our friends’ stomachs will be thinking their throats is cut.’
    The company sat down at table, Father Clancy said grace, and Maggie Magoon staggered in with the largest goose in Tynecastle. Francis had never tasted such a goose – it dissolved, in rich flavours, upon the tongue. His body glowed from the long excursion in the keen air and from a strange interior joy. Now and then his eyes met Nora’s across the table, shyly, with exquisite understanding. Though he was so quiet her gaiety thrilled him. The wonder of this happy day, of the secret bond which lay between them, was like a pain.
    When the repast was over Ned got up slowly, amidst applause. He struck an oratorical attitude, one thumb in his arm-pit. He was absurdly nervous.
    ‘Your Reverence, Ladies and Gentlemen, I thank you one and all. I’m a man of few words,’ – a cry of ‘No, No’ from Thaddeus Gilfoyle – ‘I say what I mean, and I mean what I say!’ A short pause while Ned struggled for more confidence. ‘I like to see my friends happy and contented round about me – good company and good beer never hurt any man.’ Interruption at the doorway from Scanty Magoon, who had sneaked in with the gowks and contrived to remain. ‘God save you, Mr Bannon!’ – brandishing a drumstick of the goose. ‘You’re a fine man!’ Ned remained unperturbable – every great man has his sycophants. ‘As I was remarkin’ when Mrs Magoon’s husband flung a brick at me …’ Laughter. ‘… I favour the social occasion. I’m sure we’re proud and pleased, every mother’s son of us, – and daughter, – to welcome into our midst my poor wife’s brother’s boy!’ Loud applause and Polly’s voice: ‘Take a bow, Francis.’ ‘ I’m not going into recent history. Let the past bury its dead, I say. But I say and say it I will, Look at him now, I say, and when he came!’ Applause and Scanty’s voice in the corridor: ‘Maggie, for the love of God, will ye bring some more of the goose!’ ‘Now, I’m not one to blow my own trumpet! I try to do fair between God and man and beast. Look at my whippets if ye don’t believe me.’ Gilfoyle’s voice: ‘The best dogs in Tynecastle!’ A longer pause, during which Ned lost the thread of his speech. ‘Where am I?’ ‘Francis!’ Polly prompted quickly. ‘Ah, yes.’ Ned raised his voice. ‘When Francis came, I said to myself, says I, Here’s a boy that might be useful. Shove him behind the bar and let him earn his keep? No, by God – Saving your presence, Father Clancy – that’s not us. We talk it over, Polly and me. The boy’s young, the boy’s been ill-treated, the boy has a future before him, the boy’s my poor dear wife’s brother’s boy. Let’s send him to college, we say; we can manage it between us.’ Ned paused. ‘Your Reverence, Ladies and Gentlemen, I’m pleased and