The Keys of the Kingdom by A. J. Cronin Page B

ease him!” Mac hopped in anguish. “Just ease him while I give him a stone.”
    ‘Gingerly, breathlessly, he began flipping stones, trying to start out the fish without snapping the cast. The game continued for an agony of time. Then whirr! – off went the fish, to the scream of the reel. And off again went Rusty and I.
    ‘An hour later, or thereabouts, in the slow wide flats opposite Doune village, the salmon at last showed signs of defeat. Exhausted, panting, torn by a hundred agonizing and entrancing hazards, Rusty gave a final command.
    ‘“Now, now! On this sand!” He croaked: “We’ve no gaff. If he takes you down farther, he’s gone for good.”
    ‘My mouth was gulpy and dry. Nervously, I stood the fish close. It came, quiet, then suddenly made a last frantic scuttle. Rusty let out a hollow groan. “ Lightly … lightly! If you lose him now I’ll never forgive you!”
    ‘In the shallows the fish seemed incredible. I could see the frayed gut of the leader. If I lost him! – an icy lump came under my shirt. I slid him gently to the little flat of sand. In an absolute tense silence Mac bent over, whipped his hand in the gills and heaved the fish, monstrous, on to the grass.
    ‘It made a noble sight on the green meadow, a fish of over forty pounds, run so freshly the sea lice still were on its arching back.
    ‘“A record, a record!” Mac chanted, swept, as was I, by a wave of heavenly joy. We had joined hands and were dancing the fandango. “Forty-two pounds if it’s an ounce … we’ll put it in the book.” He actually embraced me. “ Man, man – You’re a bonny, bonny fisher.”
    ‘At that moment, from the single railway line across the river, came the faint whistle of an engine. Rusty paused, gazed in bewildered fashion at the plume of smoke, at the toylike red-and-white signal which had suddenly dipped over Doune village station. Recollection flooded him. He dug in consternation for his watch. “Good Heavens, Chisholm!” His tone was that of the Holywell Headmaster. “ That’s the Bishop’s train.”
    ‘His dilemma was apparent: he had five minutes to meet his distinguished visitors and five miles of roundabout road to reach the station – visible, only two fields away, across the Stinchar.
    ‘I could see him slowly make up his mind. “Take the fish back, Chisholm, and have them boil it whole for luncheon. Go quickly now. And remember Lot’s wife and the pillar of salt. Whatever you do, don’t look back!”
    ‘I couldn’t help it. Once I reached the first bend of the stream, from behind a bush, I risked a salty ending. Father Mac had already stripped to the buff and tied his clothing in a bundle. Wearing his top hat on his head, with the bundle uplifted like a crozier, he stepped naked into the river. Wading and swimming, he reached the other side, scrambled into his suit and sprinted manfully towards the approaching train.
    ‘I lay on the grass, rolling, in a kind of ecstasy. It was not the vision – which would live with me forever – of the top hat planted dauntlessly upon the nubile brow, but the moral pluck which lay behind the escapade. I thought: He too must hate our pious prudery, which shudders at the sight of human flesh, and cloaks the female form as though it were an infamy.’
    A sound outside made Francis pause and he ceased writing as the door opened. Hudson and Anselm Mealey came into the room. Hudson, a dark quiet youth, sat down and began to change his shoes. Anselm had the evening mail in his hand.
    ‘Letter for you, Francis,’ he said effusively.
    Mealey had grown into a fine pink-and-white young man. His cheek had the smoothness of perfect health. His eye was soft and limpid, his smile ready. Always eager busy, smiling: without question he was the most popular student in the school. Though his work was never brilliant the masters liked him – his name was usually on the prize list. He was good at fives and racquets and all the less rough games. And he