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'Well, seeing as it's only for matchsticks ...' said the priest, and was dealt in. Friendly games of chance, after all, are not a sin. Not for match-sticks. They divided the sticks into three even piles and began to play.
For the first two hands the priest folded early, watching the others bid. The judge won four matchsticks. On the third hand the priest's face lit up.
'Is that not good?' he asked, displaying his hand to the other two. It was good; a full house, jacks on kings. The judge folded his own hand in exasperation.
'Yes, it's very good, Father,' said O'Connor patiently, 'but you are not supposed to show us, don't you see? For if we know what you have, we will not wager anything if our hand is not as good as yours. Your own hand should be... well now, like the confessional.'
That made sense to the priest. 'Like the confessional,' he repeated. 'Yes, I see. Not a word to anyone, eh?'
He apologized and they started again. For sixty minutes up to Thurles they played fifteen hands, and the judge's pile of matchsticks mounted. The priest was almost cleaned out and sad-eyed O'Connor had only half his pile left. He made too many lapses; the good father seemed half at sea; only the judge played hard, calculating poker, assessing the options and odds with his legally trained mind. The game was a vindication of his theory of mind over luck. Just after Thurles O'Connor's mind seemed to wander. The judge had to call him to the game twice.
'I fear it's not very interesting, playing with matchsticks,' he confessed after the second time. 'Shall we not end it here?'
'Oh, I confess I'm rather enjoying it,' said the judge. Most winners enjoy the game.
'Or we could make it more interesting,' said O'Connor apologetically. 'I'm not by nature a betting man, but a few shillings would do no harm.'
'If you wish,' said the judge, 'though I observe that you have lost a few matches.'
'Ah, your honour, my luck must change soon,' said O'Connor with his elfin smile.
'Then I must retire,' said the priest with finality. 'For I fear I have but three pounds in my purse, and that to last me through my holiday with my mother at Dingle.'
'But, Father,' said O'Connor, 'without you we could not play. And a few shillings ..
'Even a few shillings, my son, are too much for me,' said the priest. 'The Holy Mother Church is no place for men who want to have money jingling in their pockets.'
'Wait,' said the judge, 'I have it. You and I, O'Connor, will divide the matchsticks between us. We will each then lend the good Father an equal amount of sticks, the sticks by now having a value. If he loses, we will not claim our debt. If he wins, he will repay us the sticks we loaned him, and benefit by the balance.'
"Tis a genius you are, your honour,' said O'Connor in wonderment.
'But I could not gamble for money,' protested the priest.
There was a gloomy silence for a while.
'Unless any winnings went to a Church charity?' suggested O'Connor. 'Surely the Lord would not object to that?'
'It's the Bishop who would object,' said the priest, 'and I may well meet him first. Still... there is the orphanage at Dingle. My mother prepares the meals there, and the poor wains are fierce cold in winter, with the price of turf being what it is ...
'A donation,' cried the judge in triumph. He turned to his bewildered companions. 'Anything the father wins, over and above the stake we lend him, is our joint donation to the orphanage. What do you say?'
'I suppose even our Bishop could not object to a donation to the orphanage,' said the priest.
'And the donation will be our gift in return for your company at a game of cards,' said O'Connor. "Tis perfect.'
The priest agreed and they started again. The judge and O'Connor split the sticks into two piles. O'Connor pointed out that with under fifty sticks they might rim out of tokens. Judge Comyn solved that one too. They broke the sticks in halves; those halves with a sulpur head were worth twice those without.
O'Connor averred that he was carrying his personal holiday money of over £30 on him, and to this limit would play the game. There was no question of either party refusing Comyn's cheque; he was so obviously a gentleman.
This done, they loaned the priest ten matches with heads and four without, half from each of them.
'Now,' said Judge Comyn as he shuffled the cards, 'what about the stakes?'
O'Connor held up half a matchstick without any head on it.
'Ten shillings?' he said. That shook the judge a bit. The forty matchsticks he had emptied from his box were now in eighty halves, representing £60 sterling, a sizable sum in 1938. The priest had £12 in front of him, the other two men £24 each at those values. He heard the priest sigh.
'In for a penny, in for a pound. Lord help me,' said the priest.
