‘It’s Doctor Troy,’ Jack prompted again. ‘Yes. That’s right,’ the Canon said, with the same gratified tone he used when he got the correct answer to the questions in the catechism as he went through the Master’s room, the quarter pound of Satin Cushions in his cassock lightening as he left the sweets on the desks after him. He nodded once more, ‘That’s right.’ But he did not move, and in a moment the doctor saw some puzzlement cross his face. It was light, a small thing really, it came out as: ‘And I’m…?’ ‘You’re Father Tom.’ ‘Father Tom?’ It seemed unlikely and then hilarious, and he put his
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