There was a delay the day of the baptism when the chosen god- father,  John  McErlaine,  got  drunk  at  the  speakeasy  and  forgot  his responsibilities. Philomena told her husband, Tommy, he’d have to be godfather. Child’s soul is in danger, she said.Tommy put his head down and  grumbled. All  right.  I’ll  be  godfather  but  I’m  not  goin’  to  be responsible  if  he  grows  up  like  his  father  causin’  trouble  and  goin’ through life with the odd manner for if he does he can go to John McErlaine at the speakeasy.The priest said,True for you,Tom, decent man  that  you  are,  fine  man  that  never  set  foot  inside  a  speakeasy. Malachy, fresh from the speakeasy himself, felt insulted and wanted to argue with the priest, one sacrilege on top of another. Take off that collar  and  we’ll  see  who’s  the  man. He  had  to  be  held  back  by  the great-breasted ones and their husbands grim.Angela, new mother, agi- tated, forgot she was holding the child and let him slip into the bap- tismal  font,  a  total  immersion  of  the  Protestant  type. The  altar  boy assisting the priest plucked the infant from the font and restored him to Angela, who sobbed and clutched him, dripping, to her bosom.The priest laughed, said he had never seen the likes, that the child was a regular little Baptist now and hardly needed a priest. This maddened Malachy again and he wanted to jump at the priest for calling the child some class of a Protestant.The priest said, Quiet, man, you’re in God’s house, and when Malachy said, God’s house, my arse, he was thrown out on Court Street because you can’t say arse in God’s house. After baptism Philomena said she had tea and ham and cakes in her house around the corner. Malachy said,Tea? and she said,Yes, tea, or is it whiskey you want? He said tea was grand but first he’d have to go and deal with John McErlaine, who didn’t have the decency to carry out his duties as godfather. Angela said,You’re only looking for an excuse to run to the speakeasy, and he said,As God is my witness, the drink is the last thing on my mind.Angela started to cry.Your son’s christening day and you have to go drinking. Delia told him he was a disgusting specimen but what could you expect from the North of Ireland. Malachy looked from one to the other, shifted on his feet, pulled his cap down over his eyes, shoved his hands deep in his trouser pock- ets,  said,  Och,  aye,  the  way  they  do  in  the  far  reaches  of  County Antrim, turned, hurried up Court Street to the speakeasy on Atlantic Avenue where he was sure they’d ply him with free drink in honor of his son’s baptism. 18