I gave him his check for the Temple Ben-David and went on to the rectory of St. Patrick's-by-the-Gashouse, where I asked for the priest. "Sure, Father Flanagan's celebrating Mass," the aged housekeeper rebuked me. "I'll wait," I told her. "I have a contribution for the church. I must give it to him personally." "Glory be!" she remarked, and withdrew, muttering. Father Flanagan was a burly, well-built young Irish-American with a friendly smile and a crushing handshake. "Mrs. Casey tells me you have something for the church, Mr.--" "My name's Tompkins, Father. I have a check for a thousand dollars. I'll give it to you now. There are no strings to it but I'd like to ask you to help me." "Well, I'll be--You know, Mr. Tompkins," Father Flanagan told me, "just this morning at breakfast Mrs. Casey said she was praying that we'd finish raising the money for the new altar before the Bishop's visit, and here it is. Isn't that wonderful, now?" "There you are, Father," I told him, "and welcome to it." "Thank you, Mr. Tompkins," the priest said simply. "I shall remember you in my prayers and so, no doubt, will Mrs. Casey. You're not a Catholic, of course?" "No," I replied. "I don't seem to be anything that makes sense medically, legally or morally. I need help." So I told him the whole story from beginning to end, and added the advice I had already received from Dr. McGregor and Rabbi Da Silva. Father Flanagan heard me out and then considered carefully. "I've heard some strange things in Confession," he stated at last, "but they never taught us at Notre Dame how to deal with a problem like yours. I'd rather like to consult the Bishop before I undertook to advise you. Do you mind?" "Yes, I do," I told the priest. "It's no disrespect for your bishop. It's just that I feel that this problem must be solved on a low level rather than by the higher echelons. In the Navy, we soon learned that the best way to get a problem loused up was to refer it to CINCPAC. What is your own reaction to my story?"