 12 Ivy Day in the Committee Room Old Jack raked the cinders together with a piece of cardboard and spread them judiciously over the whitening dome of coals. When the dome was thinly covered, his face lapsed into darkness, but as he set himself to fan the fire again, his crouching shadow ascended the opposite wall, and his face slowly reemerged into light. It was an old man's face, very bony and hairy. The moist blue eyes blinked at the fire, and the moist mouth fell open at times, munching once or twice mechanically when it closed. When the cinders had caught, he laid the piece of cardboard against the wall, sighed and said, �That�s better now, Mr. O'Connor.� Mr. O'Connor, a gray-haired young man whose face was disfigured by many blotches and pimples, had just brought the tobacco for a cigarette into a shapely cylinder, but when spoken to he undid his handiwork meditatively. Then he began to roll the tobacco again meditatively, and after a moment�s thought decided to lick the paper. �Did Mr. Tierney say when he�d be back?� he asked in a sky falsetto. He didn�t say. Mr. O'Connor put his cigarette into his mouth and began to search his pockets. He took out a pack of thin, paste-board cards. �I�ll get you a match,� said the old man. �Never mind, this will do� said Mr. O'Connor. He selected one of the cards and read what was printed on it. �Royal Exchange Ward� Mr. Richard J. Tierney, P.L.G., respectfully solicits the favor of your vote and influence at the coming election in the Royal Exchange Ward. Mr. O'Connor had been engaged by Tierney�s agent to canvas one part of the ward, but as the weather was inclement and his boots led in the wet, he spent a great part of the day sitting by the fire in the committee room on Wicklow Street with Jack, the old caretaker. They had been sitting thus since the short day had grown dark. It was the 6th of October, dismal and cold out of doors. Mr. O'Connor tore a strip off the card, and lighting it lit his cigarette. As he did so the flame lit up a leaf of dark glossy ivy, the lapel of his coat. The old man watched him attentively and then, taking up the piece of cardboard again, began to fan the fire slowly while his companion smoked. �Ah, yes� he said continuing. �It�s hard to know what way to bring up children. Now, who would think he turned out like that? I sent him to the Christian Brothers, and I had done what I could him, and then he goes boozing about. I tried to make him some way decent.� He replaced the cardboard wearily. �Only I�m an old man now. I change his tune for him. I take the stick to his back and beat him while I could stand over him, as I had done many a time before. The mother, you know, she cooks him this and that. �That�s what ruins children� said Mr. O'Connor. �To be sure it is� said the old man. And many things should get for it, only impudence. He takes the upper hand of me whenever he sees I have a sub-taken. What�s the world coming to when sons speak that way to their fathers? �What age is he?� said Mr. O'Connor. �Nineteen� said the old man. �Why don�t you put him to something? Sure amped and never done at the drunken bousy ever since he left school. �I won�t keep you,� I says. �You must get a job for yourself. But sure it�s worse whenever he gets a job. He drinks it all.� Mr. O'Connor shook his head in sympathy, and the old man fell silent, gazing into the fire. One opened the door of the room and called out, �Hello! Is this a free Mason�s meeting? �Who�s that?� said the old man. �What are you doing in the dark?� asked a voice. �Is that you, Hines?� asked Mr. O'Connor. �Yes. What are you doing in the dark?� said Mr. Hines, advancing into the light of the fire. He was a tall, slender young man with a light brown mustache. Imminent little drops of rain hung at the brim of his hat and the collar of his jacket coat was turned up. �Well, Matt� he says to Mr. O'Connor, �How goes it?� Mr. O'Connor shook his head. The old man left the hearth, and after stumbling about the room returned with two candlesticks, which he thrust one after the other into the fire and carried to the table. A denuded room came into view, and the fire lost all its cheerful color. The walls of the room were bare except for a copy of an election address. In the middle of the room was a small table on which papers were heaped. Mr. Hines leaned against the mantelpiece and asked, �Is he paid you yet?� �Not yet� said Mr. O'Connor. �I hope to God he�ll not leave us in the lurch tonight.� Mr. Hines laughed. �Oh, he�ll pay you, never fear� he said. �I hope he�ll look smart about it if he means business� said Mr. O'Connor. �What do you think, Jack?� said Mr. Hines, satirically to the old man. The old man returned to his seat by the fire, saying, �It isn�t, but he has it anyway, not like the other tinker.� �What other tinker?� said Mr. Hines. �Kolgan�� said the old man, scornfully. �Is it because Kolgan�s a working man, you say that?� �What�s the difference between a good, honest bricklayer and a publican, eh?� �Hasn�t the working man as good a right to be in the corporation as anyone else?� �I, in a better right than those shoeeings that are always had in hand before any fellow with a handle to his name. �Isn�t that so, Matt?� said Mr. Hines, addressing Mr. Connor. �I think you�re right,� said Mr. O'Connor. �One man is a plain honest man with no hunker sliding about him. He goes in to represent the labor classes. This fellow you�re working for only once, some job or other.� �Of course the working classes should be represented,� said the old man. �The working man,� said Mr. Hines, �gets all kicks and no half-pence, but its labor produces everything. The working man is not for looking for fat jobs for his sons and nephews and cousins. The working man is not going to drag the honor of Dublin in the mud to please a German monarch.� �How�s that?� said the old man. �Don�t you know they want to present an address of welcome to Edward Rex if he comes here next year? What do you want, cow-towing to a foreign king?� �Our man won�t vote for the address,� said Mr. O'Connor. �He goes in on the Nationalist� ticket. �Won�t he?� said Mr. Hines. �Wait till you see whether he will or not. I know him. Is it tricky, dicky tyranny? �By God, perhaps you�re right, Joe� said Mr. O'Connor. �Anyway, I wish he�d turn up with the Spanduliks.� The three men fell silent. The old man began to rake more cinders together. Mr. Hines took off his hat, shook it, and then turned down the collar of his coat, displaying as he did an ivy leaf in the lapel. �If this man was alive� he said pointing to the leaf, �we�d have no talk of an address of welcome.� �That�s true� said Mr. O'Connor. �Musha, God be with them times� said the old man. �There was some life in it then.� The room was silent again. Then a bustling little man with a snuffling nose and a very cold ear is pushed in the door. He walked over quickly to the fire, rubbing his hands as if he intended to produce a spark from them. �No money, boys� he said. �Sit down here, Mr. Henshey� said the old man, offering his chair. �Oh, don�t stir, Jack. Don�t stir� said Mr. Henshey. He nodded curtly to Mr. Hines and sat down on the chair which the old man vacated. �Did you serve on Gear Street?� he said to Mr. O'Connor. �Yes� said Mr. O'Connor, beginning to search his pockets for memoranda. �Did you call on Grimes?� I did. �Well, how does he stand?� He wouldn�t promise. He said, �I won�t tell anyone what way I�m going to vote. But I think he�ll be all right. Why so?� He asked me who the nominators were, and I told him. I mentioned Father Burke�s name. I think it�ll be all right. Mr. Henshey began to snuffle, and to rub his hands over the fire at a terrific speed. Then he said, �For the love of God, Jack, bring us a bit of coal. There must be some left.� The old man went out of the room. �It�s no go� said Mr. Henshey, shaking his head. I asked the little shoe-boy, but he said, �Oh, now, Mr. Henshey, when I see work going on properly, I won�t forget you. You may be sure.� Mean little tinker. �Ushah, how could he be anything else?� �What did I tell you, Matt?� said Mr. Hines. �Tricky, dicky, tyranny.� �He�s as tricky as they make him,� said Mr. Henshey. �He hasn�t got those little pig�s eyes for nothing,� blast his soul. �Couldn�t he pay up like a man instead of, �Oh, now, Mr. Henshey, I must speak to Mr. Fanning. I�ve got lots of money.� Mean little schoolboy of hell. I hope he forgets the time his little old father kept the hand me down shop in Mary�s Lane. �But is that a fact?� asked Mr. O'Connor. �God yes,� said Mr. Henshey. �Did you never hear that?� And the man used to go in on Sunday morning before the houses were opened to buy a waistcoat or trousers. �Moya!� But tricky dickies, little old father, always had a tricky little black bottle up in a corner. �Do you mind now?� �That�s that. That�s where he first saw the light.� The old man returned with a few lumps of coal, which he placed here and there on the fire. �That�s a nice �how do you do�� said Mr. O'Connor. �How does he expect us to work for him if he won�t stump up? �I can�t help it� said Mr. Henshey. �I expect to find the bailiffs in the hall when I go home.� Mr. Hine�s laughed, and shoving himself away from the mantelpiece, with the aid of his shoulders made ready to leave. �It�ll be all right when King Eddie comes,� he said. �Well, boys, I�m off for the present. See you later. Bye-bye.� He went out of the room slowly. Neither Mr. Henshey nor the old man said anything. But just as the door was closing, Mr. O'Connor, who had been staring mootily into the fire, called out suddenly, �Bye, Joe.� Mr. Henshey waited a few minutes, and then nodded in the direction of the door. �Tell me,� he says across the fire. �What brings our friend in here? What does he want? �Ushup, poor Joe� said Mr. O'Connor, throwing the end of his cigarette into the fire. �He�s hard up, like the rest of us.� Mr. Henshey snuffled vigorously, and spat so copiously that he nearly put out the fire, which uttered a hissing protest. �I�ll tell you my private and candid opinion,� he said. �I think he�s a man from the other camp. He�s a spy of Colgan�s, if you ask me. Just go around and try and find out how they�re getting on. They won�t suspect you. Do you twig? �Ah, poor Joe is a decent skin,� said Mr. O'Connor. His father was a decent, respectable man,� Mr. Henshey admitted. �Poor old Larry Hines, many a good turn he did in his day. But I�m greatly afraid our friend is not nineteen carat. Dammit! I can understand a fellow being hard up, but what I can�t understand is a fellow sponging. Couldn�t he have some spark of manhood about him? �He doesn�t get a warm welcome from me when he comes,� said the old man. Let him work for his side, and not come spying around here. �I don�t know,� said Mr. O'Connor dubiously, as he took out cigarette papers and tobacco. �I think Joe Hines is a straight man. He�s a clever chap, too, with the pen. Do you remember that thing he wrote? Some of these hill-siders and fenians are a bit too clever if you ask me,� said Mr. Henshey. �Do you know what my private and candid opinion is about some of those little jokers? I believe half of them are in the pay of the castle. There�s no knowing,� said the old man. �Oh, but I know it for a fact,� said Mr. Henshey. �They�re castle hacks. I don�t say Hines. No damn it. I think he�s a stroke above that. But there�s a certain little nobleman with a cock-eye. You know the patriot I�m alluding to?� Mr. O'Connor nodded. �There�s a lineal descent of major sir, if you like. �Oh, the heart�s blood of a patriot. That fellow now, that had sell his country for four pence, I�m go down on his bended knee and think the almighty Christ he had a country to sell. There was a knock at the door. �Come in� said Mr. Henshey. �A person resembling a poor clergyman or a poor actor appeared in the doorway. His black clothes were tightly buttoned on his short body, and it was impossible to say whether he wore a clergyman�s collar or a layman�s, because the collar of his shabby frockcoat and the uncovered buttons of which reflected the candlelight was turned up above his head. He wore a round hat of hard black felt. His face, shining with raindrops, had the appearance of damp yellow cheese save where two rosy spots indicated the cheekbones. He opened his very long mouth suddenly to express disappointment, and at the same time, open wide, his very bright blue eyes to express pleasure and surprise. �Oh, Father Keon� said Mr. Henshey, jumping up from his chair. �Is that you? What�s in? �No, no, no, no� said Father Keon quickly, pursing his lips as though he were addressing a child. �Won�t you come in and sit down? �No, no, no� said Father Keonan, speaking in a discreet, indulgent, velvety voice. �Don�t let me disturb you now. I�m just looking for Mr. Fanning. �He�s round at the black eagle� said Mr. Henshey. �But won�t you come in and sit down a minute? �No, no, thank you. He was just a little business-matter� said Father Keonan. �I thank you, indeed� he retreated from the doorway, and Mr. Henshey, seizing one of the candlesticks, went to the door to light him down stairs. �Oh, don�t trouble, I beg. �No, but the stairs is so dark. �No, no, I can see� said Mr. Henshey. �Thank you, indeed. �Are you all right now? �All right, thanks� said Mr. Henshey returned with the candlestick and put it on the table. He sat down again at the fire. There was a silence for a few moments. �Tell me, John� said Mr. O'Connor, lighting his cigarette with another pasteboard card. �What is he exactly? �Ask me an easier one� said Mr. Henshey. �Fanning and himself seem to me very thick. They�re often in cabinalls together. Is he a priest at all? �Yes, I believe so. I think he�s what you call a black sheep. We have it many of them, thank God, but we have a few. He is an unfortunate man of some kind. �And how does he knock it out?� asked Mr. O'Connor. �That�s another mystery. Is he attached to any chapel or church or institution or �No� said Mr. Henshey. �I think he�s traveling on his own account. God forgive me� he added. I thought he was the dozen of stout. �Is there any chance of a drink itself?� asked Mr. O'Connor. �I�m dry, too� said the old man. �I asked that little shoe-boy three times� said Mr. Henshey. �Wouldn�t he send up a dozen of stout?� I asked him again now, but he�s leaning on the counter in his shirt-sleeves, having a deep goster with Alderman Cowley. �Why didn�t you remind him?� said Mr. O'Connor. �Well, I couldn�t go over while he was talking to Alderman Cowley. I just waited till I caught his eye and said, �About that little manner I was speaking to you about before.� �That�ll be all right, Mr. H,� he said. �Yeah, I�m sure the little hop-all-my-thumb is forgotten all about it.� �There�s some deal on in that quarter� said Mr. O'Connor thoughtfully. �I saw the three of them hard at it yesterday at Suffolk Street Corner.� �I think I know the little game they�re at� said Mr. Henshey. �You must owe the city fathers money nowadays if you want to be made, Lord Mayor. Then they�ll make you, Lord Mayor. My God, I�m seriously thinking of becoming a city father myself. What do you think? Would I do the job?� Mr. O'Connor laughed, as far as owing money goes. �Driving out of the mansion house� said Mr. Henshey, �and all my vermin with Jack here standing up behind me in a powdered wig, eh?� �And make me your private secretary, John.� �Yes, and I�ll make Father Key on my private chaplain. We�ll have a family party.� �Faith, Mr. Henshey� said the old man. �You keep a better style than some of them. I was talking one day to old Keegan the porter. �And how do you like your new master, Pat?� says I to him. �You haven�t much entertaining now,� says I. �Entertaining,� he says. �He�d live on the smell of an oil rag. �And do you know what he told me?� Now I declared to God I didn�t believe him. �What?� said Mr. Henshey and Mr. O'Connor. He told me. �What do you think of a Lord Mayor of Dublin sending out for a pound of chops for his dinner?� �How�s that for high living?� He says. �Wish us,� says I. �A pound of chops,� says he, �coming into the mansion house. �Wish us,� says I. �What kind of people is going at all now?� At this point there was a knock at the door, and a boy put in his head. �What is it?� said the old man. �From the black eagle� said the boy, walking in sideways and depositing a basket on the floor with a noise of shaken bottles. The old man helped the boy to transfer the bottles from the basket to the table, and counted the full tally. After the transfer the boy put his basket on his arm and asked, �Any bottles?� �What bottles?� said the old man. �Won�t you let us drink them first?� asked Mr. Henshey. �I was told to ask for the bottles. �Come back to-morrow� said the old man. �Here, boy� said Mr. Henshey. �Will you run over to O'Farrows and ask him to lend us a corkscrew?� For Mr. Henshey say, �Tell him we won�t keep it a minute. Drink the basket here.� The boy went out, and Mr. Henshey began to rub his hands cheerfully, saying, �Ah, well, he�s not so bad, after all. He�s as good as his word, anyhow.� �There�s no tumblers� said the old man. �Ah, don�t let that trouble you, Jack� said Mr. Henshey. �Many of the good�s man before now drank out of the bottle. �Anyway, it�s better than nothing� said Mr. O'Connor. �He�s not a bad sort� said Mr. Henshey. �Only fanning has such a loan of him. He means well, you know, in his own tin-pot way.� The boy came back with the corkscrew. The old man opened three bottles, and was handing back the corkscrew, when Mr. Henshey said to the boy, �Would you like a drinks-boy?� �If you please, sir� said the boy. The old man opened another bottle grudgingly, and handed it to the boy. �What age are you?� he asked. �Seventeen� said the boy. As the old man said nothing further, the boy took the bottle and said, �Here�s my best respect, sir� to Mr. Henshey. Drank the contents, put the bottle back on the table, wiped his mouth with his sleeve. Then he took up the corkscrew and went out the door sideways, muttering some form of salutation. �That�s the way it begins� said the old man. �The thin edge of the wedge� said Mr. Henshey. The old man distributed the three bottles, which he had opened, and the men drank from them simultaneously. After having drank, each placed his bottle on the mantelpiece within hands-reach, and drew in a long breath of satisfaction. �Well, I did a good day�s work today� said Mr. Henshey after a pause. �That�s so, John.� �Yes, I got him one or two sure things in Dawson Street, Crofton and myself. Between ourselves, you know.� �Crofton, he�s a decent champ, of course, but he�s not worth a damn as a canvasser. He has no word to throw to a dog. He stands and looks at the people, while I do the talking. Here two men entered the room. One of them was a very fat man, whose blue, surged clothes seemed to be in danger of falling from his sloping figure. He had a big face, which resembled a young ox�s face in expression, staring blue eyes in a grizzled mustache. The other man, who was much younger and frailer, had a thin, clean shaven face. He wore a very high double collar, in a wide brim, bowler hat. �Hello, Crofton� said Mr. Henshey to the fat man. �Talk of the devil.� �Where did the booze come from?� asked the young man. �Did the cow cave?� �Oh, of course. Lions spots the drink, first thing� said Mr. O'Connor, laughing. �Is that the way you chaps canvas?� asked Mr. Lions. �And Crofton and I, out in the cold and rain, looking for votes.� �Why, blast your soul� said Mr. Henshey. �I�d get more votes in five minutes than you two get in a week.� �Open two bottles of stout, Jack� said Mr. O'Connor. �How can I� said the old man, when there�s no coke screw. �Wait, wait now� said Mr. Henshey, getting up quickly. �Did you ever see this little trick?� He took two bottles from the table, and carried them to the fire, and put them on the hob. Then he sat down, again, by the fire, and took another drink from his bottle. Mr. Lions sat at the edge of the table, pushing his hat towards the nape of his neck, and began to swing his legs. �Which is my bottle�� he asked. �This lad� said Mr. Henshey. �Mr. Crofton sat down on a box, and looked fixedly at the other bottle on the hob.� He was silent for two reasons. The first reason, sufficient in itself, was that he had nothing to say. The second reason was that he considered his companions beneath him. He had been a canvasser for Wilkins, the conservative, but when the conservatives had withdrawn their man, and choosing the lesser of two evils, given their support to the nationalist candidate, he had been engaged to work for Mr. Tyranny. In a few minutes, an apologetic was heard as the cork flew out in Mr. Lions� bottle. Mr. Lions jumped off the table, went to the fire, took his bottle, and carried it back to the table. �I was just telling them, Crofton� said Mr. Henshey, �that we got a few good votes today.� �Who did you get?� asked Mr. Lions. �Well, I got parks for one, and I got Atkinson for two, and got Ward of Dawson Street. Final chap he is, too. Regular old toff. Old conservative. �But isn�t your candidate a nationalist?� said he. �A respectable man,� said I. �He�s in favor of whatever will benefit this country. �He�s a big rate-payer,� I said. �He has extensive house property in the city, and three places of business. And isn�t it to his own advantage to keep down the rates? He�s a prominent and respected citizen,� said I. �And a poor law-guardian. And he doesn�t belong to any party, good, bad, or indifferent. That�s the way to talk to him.� �And what about the address to the king?� said Mr. Lions, after drinking and smacking his lips. �Listen to me,� said Mr. Henshey. �What we want in this country is, as I said, too old-ward, is capital. The king�s coming here will mean an influx of money into the country. The citizens of Dublin will benefit by it. Look at all the factories down by the quays there, idle. Look at all the money there is in this country, if we only worked the old industries, the mills, the ship-building yards, and factories. It�s capital we want.� �But look here, John,� said Mr. O'Connor. �Why should we welcome the king of England? Didn�t Parnell himself? �Parnell,� said Mr. Henshey. �Is dead.� �Now here�s the way I look at it. �Here�s the chap, come to the throne, after his old mother keeping him out of it till the old man was gray. He�s a man of the world, and he means well by us. He�s a jolly, fine, decent fellow, if you ask me, and no damn nonsense about him. He just says to himself, �The old one never went to see these wild Irish. By Christ, I�ll go myself and see what they�re like. �And are we going to insult the man when he comes over on a friendly visit? A. Isn�t that right, Crofton?� Crofton nodded his head. �But after all now,� said Mr. Lyons argumentatively, �King Edward�s life, you know, is not the very �Let bygones be bygones� said Mr. Henshey. �I admire the man personally. He�s just an ordinary knockabout like you and me. He�s fond of his glass of grog, and is a bit of a rake, perhaps, and is a good sportsman. �Damn it, can�t we? Irish play fair? �That�s all very fine,� said Mr. Lyons, �but look at the case of Parnell now. �In the name of God,� said Mr. Henshey, �where�s the analogy between the two cases? �What I mean,� said Mr. Lyons, �is that we have our ideals. Why now would we welcome a man like that? Do you think now, after what he did, Parnell was a fit man to lead us? And why then would we do it for Edward VII? �This is Parnell�s accessory,� said Mr. O'Connor, �and don�t let us stir up any bad blood. We can all respect him now that he�s dead and gone, even the conservatives,� he added, turning to Mr. Crofton. The tardy cork flew out of Mr. Crofton�s bottle. Mr. Crofton got up from his box and went to the fire. After he returned with his capture he said in a deep voice, �Our side of the house respects him, because he was a gentleman.� �Right you are, Crofton,� said Mr. Henshey fiercely. �He was the only man who could keep that bag of cats in order. Down ye dogs, light down ye currs.� That�s the way he treated them. �Come in, Joe, come in� he called out, catching sight of Mr. Hines in the doorway. �Mr. Hines came in slowly. �Open another bottle of stout, Jack� said Mr. Henshey. �Oh, I forgot, there�s no corkscrew. �Here, show me one here, and I�ll put it on the fire.� The old man handed him another bottle, and he placed it on the hob. �Sit down, Joe� said Mr. O'Connor. �We were just talking about the chief.� �Hi, hi� said Mr. Henshey. �Mr. Hines sat on the side of the table near Mr. Lyons, but said nothing.� �There�s one of them anyhow� said Mr. Henshey. �That didn�t re-nig him. �By God, I�ll say that for you, Joe. �No, by God, you stuck to him like a man.� �Oh, Joe� said Mr. O'Connor suddenly. �Give us that thing you wrote. Do you remember? Have you got it on you? � �Oh, I� said Mr. Henshey. �Give us that.� �Did you ever hear that, Crofton? Listen to this now, splendid thing.� �Go on� said Mr. O'Connor. �Fire away, Joe.� �Mr. Hines did not seem to remember it once, the piece to which they were alluding. But, after reflecting a while, he said, �Oh, that thing, is it? Sure, that�s old now.� �Out with it, man� said Mr. O'Connor. �Shh� said Mr. Henshey. �Now, Joe.� Mr. Hines hesitated a little longer, and then, amidst the silence, he took off his hat, laid it on the table and stood up. He seemed to be rehearsing the piece in his mind. After a rather long pause, he announced, �The death of Parnell, 6 October, 1891.� He cleared his throat once or twice, and then began to recite, �He is dead. Our uncrowed king is dead. Oh, Aaron, mourn with grief and woe, for he lies dead whom the fell gang of modern hypocrites laid low. He lies slain by the coward hounds. He raised a glory from the mire. And Aaron�s hopes and Aaron�s dreams perished upon her monarch�s pyre. In palace, cabin, or in cot, the Irish heart wherever it be is bowed with woe, for he is gone. Who would have wrought her destiny? He would have had his Aaron famed, the green flag gloriously unfurled. Her statesmen, bards, and warriors raised. Before the nations of the world. He dreamed, alas, to his but a dream of liberty. But as he strove to clutch that idol, treachery sundered him from the thing he loved. Shame on the coward! Kate of hands that smote their lord, or with a kiss, betrayed him to the rabble route, a fawning priest, no friends of his. May everlasting shame consume the memory of those who tried to befall and smear the exalted name, of one who spurned them in his pride. He fell, as fall the mighty ones, nobly undaunted to the last, and death has now united him, with Aaron�s heroes of the past. No sound of strife disturb his sleep. Calmly he rests. No human pain or high ambition spurs him now. The peaks of glory to obtain. They had their way. They laid him low. But Aaron list his spirit may rise, like the phoenix from the flames, when breaks the dawning of the day, the day that brings us freedom�s reign. And on that day Aaron well pledge in the cup she lifts the joy, one grief, the memory of Parnell. Mr. Hine sat down on the table. When he had finished his recitation there was a silence, and then a burst of clapping. Even Mr. Lyons clapped. The applause continued for a little time. When it had ceased all the auditors drank from their bottles in silence. The cork flew out of Mr. Hine�s bottle. But Mr. Hine�s remained sitting, flushed, and bare-headed on the table. He did not seem to have heard the invitation. �Good man, Joe!� said Mr. O'Connor, taking out his cigarette papers and pouch, the better to hide his emotion. �What do you think of that, Crofton?� cried Mr. Henchy. �Isn�t that fine? What?� Crofton said that it was a very fine piece of writing. End of Story 12 Ivy Day in the Committee Room. Mr. Hollehan, Assistant Secretary of the Ira Abu Society, had been walking up and down Dublin for nearly a month, with his hands and pockets full of dirty pieces of paper, arranging about the series of concerts. He had a game leg, and for this his friends called him Hoppy Hollehan. He walked up and down constantly, stood by the hour at street corners arguing the point, and made notes. But in the end it was Mrs. Carney who arranged everything. Miss Devlin had become Mrs. Carney out of spite. She had been educated in a high-class convent where she had learned French and music. As she was naturally pale and unbending in manner she made few friends at school. When she came to the age of marriage she was sent out to many houses, where her playing and ivory manners were much admired. She sat amid the chilly circle of her accomplishments, waiting for some suitor to brave it and offer her a brilliant life. But the young men whom she met were ordinary, and she gave them no encouragement, trying to console her romantic desires by eating a great deal of Turkish delight and secret. However, when she drew near the limit and her friends began to loosen their tongues about her, she silenced them by marrying Mr. Carney, who was a bootmaker on Ormond Key. He was much older than she. His conversation, which was serious, took place at intervals in his great brown beard. After the first year of married life Mrs. Carney perceived that such a man would wear better than a romantic person, but she never put her own romantic ideas away. He was sober, thrifty, and pious. He went to the altar every first Friday, sometimes with her, often her by himself. But she never weakened in her religion, and was a good wife to him. At some party in a strange house when she lifted her eyebrow ever so slightly he stood up to take his leave and, when his cough troubled him, she put the idardown quilt over his feet and made a strong rom-punch. For his part, he was a model father. By paying a small sum every week into a society, he insured for both his daughters a dowry of one hundred pounds each when they came to the age of twenty-four. He sent the older daughter, Kathleen, to a good convent, where she learned French and music, and afterward paid her fees at the academy. Every year in the month of July Mrs. Carney found occasion to say to some friend, �My good man is packing us off to Scarry's for a few weeks.� If it was not Scarry's, it was Houth or Greystones. When the Irish revival began to be appreciable, Mrs. Carney determined to take advantage of her daughter's name and brought an Irish teacher to the house. Kathleen and her sister sent Irish picture postcards to their friends, and these friends sent back other Irish picture postcards. On special Sundays, when Mr. Carney went with his family to the pro-cathedral, a little crowd of people would assemble after mass at the corner of Cathedral Street. They were all friends of the Carney's, musical friends, or nationalist friends, and when they had played every little counter of gossip, they shook hands with one another altogether, laughing at the crossing of so many hands, and said good-bye to one another in Irish. Soon the name of Miss Kathleen Carney began to be heard often on people's lips. People said that she was very clever at music and a very nice girl, and moreover that she was a believer in the language movement. Mrs. Carney was well content at this. Therefore she was not surprised when one day Mr. Hollahan came to her and proposed that her daughter should be the accompanist at a series of four grand concerts, which his society was going to give in the anteant concert rooms. She brought him into the drawing-room, made him sit down, and brought out the decanter and the silver biscuit-barrel. She entered heart and soul into the details of the enterprise, advised and dissuaded, and finally a contract was drawn up by which Kathleen was to receive eight guineas for her services as accompanist at the four grand concerts. As Mr. Hollahan was a novice in such delicate matters as the wording of bills and the disposing of items for a program, Mrs. Carney helped him. She had tacked. She knew what artistes should go into capitals and what artistes should go into small type. She knew that the first tenor would not like to come on after Mr. Mead's comic turn. To keep the audience continually diverted, she slipped the doubtful items in between the old favourites. Mr. Hollahan called to see her every day to have her advice on some point. She was invariably friendly and advising, homely in fact. She pushed the decanter towards him, saying, Now help yourself, Mr. Hollahan! And while he was helping himself, she said, Don't be afraid! Don't be afraid of it! Everything went on smoothly. Mrs. Carney bought some lovely blueish-pink charmous in brown Thomas' to let into the front of Kathleen's dress. It cost a pretty penny, but there are occasions when a little expense is justifiable. She took a dozen of two shilling tickets for the final concert, and sent them to those friends who could not be trusted to come otherwise. She forgot nothing, and thanks to her, everything that was to be done was done. The concerts were to be on Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, and Saturday. When Mrs. Carney arrived with her daughter at the anteant concert rooms on Wednesday night, she did not like the look of things. A few young men, wearing bright blue badges in their coats, stood idle in the vestibule—none of them wore evening dress. She passed by with her daughter, and a quick glance through the open door of the hall showed her the cause of the steward's idleness. At first she wondered had she mistaken the hour. No! It was twenty minutes to eight. In the dressing-room behind the stage she was introduced to the secretary of the society, Mr. Fitzpatrick. She smiled and shook his hand. He was a little man with a white vacant face. She noticed that he wore his soft brown hat carelessly on the side of his head and that his accent was flat. He held a program in his hand, and while he was talking to her, he chewed one end of it into a moist pulp. He seemed to bear disappointments lightly. Mr. Hollehan came into the dressing-room every few minutes with reports from the box-office. The artiste talked amongst themselves nervously, glancing from time to time at the mirror, and rolled and unrolled their music. When it was nearly half-past eight, the few people in the hall began to express their desire to be entertained. Mr. Fitzpatrick came in, smiled vacantly at the room, and said, "'Well now, ladies and gentlemen, I suppose we'd better open the ball.'" Mrs. Carney rewarded his very flat, final syllable with a quick stare of contempt, and then said to her daughter encouragingly, "'Are you ready, dear?' When she had an opportunity, she called Mr. Hollehan aside and asked him to tell her what it meant. Mr. Hollehan did not know what it meant. He said that the committee had made a mistake in arranging for four concerts. Four was too many. "'And the arteists,' said Mrs. Carney, "'of course they are doing their best, but really they are not good.'" Mr. Hollehan admitted that the arteists were no good, but the committee, he said, had decided to let the first three concerts go as they pleased, and reserve all the talent for Saturday night. Mrs. Carney said nothing, but as the mediocre items followed one another on the platform, and the few people in the hall grew fewer and fewer, she began to regret that she had put herself to any expense for such a concert. There was something she didn't like in the look of things, and Mr. Fitzpatrick's vacant smile irritated her very much. However, she said nothing, and waited to see how it would end. The concert expired shortly before ten, and everyone went home quickly. The concert on Thursday night was better attended, but Mrs. Carney saw at once that the house was filled with paper. The audience behaved indecorously, as if the concert were an informal dress rehearsal. Mr. Fitzpatrick seemed to enjoy himself. He was quite unconscious that Mrs. Carney was taking angry note of his conduct. He stood at the edge of the screen, from time to time jutting out his head and exchanging a laugh with two friends in the corner of the balcony. In the course of the evening Mrs. Carney learned that the Friday concert was to be abandoned, and that the committee was going to move heaven and earth to secure a bumper house on Saturday night. When she heard this, she sought out Mr. Hollahan. She button-holed him as he was limping out quickly with a glass of lemonade for a young lady, and asked him, was it true? Yes, it was true. But of course that doesn't alter the contract, she said. The contract was for four concerts. Mr. Hollahan seemed to be in a hurry. He advised her to speak to Mr. Fitzpatrick. Mrs. Carney was now beginning to be alarmed. She called Mr. Fitzpatrick away from his screen and told him that her daughter had signed for four concerts, and that, of course, according to the terms of the contract, she should receive the sum originally stipulated for, whether the society gave the four concerts or not. Mr. Fitzpatrick, who did not catch the point at issue very quickly, seemed unable to resolve the difficulty, and said that he would bring the matter before the committee. Mrs. Carney's anger began to flutter in her cheek, and she had all she could do to keep from asking, and who was the cometi-pray? But she knew that it would not be ladylike to do that, so she was silent. Little boys were sent into the principal streets of Dublin early on Friday morning with bundles of hand-bills. Special puffs appeared in all the evening papers, reminding the music-loving public of the treat which was in store for it on the following evening. Mrs. Carney was somewhat reassured. But she thought well to tell her husband part of her suspicions. He listened carefully and said that perhaps it would be better if he went with her on Saturday night. She agreed. She respected her husband in the same way that she respected the general post-office, as something large, secure, and fixed. And though she knew the small number of his talents, she appreciated his abstract value as a male. She was glad that he had suggested coming with her. She thought her plans over. The night of the grand concert came. Mrs. Carney, with her husband and daughter, arrived at the anteant concert-rooms three-quarters an hour before the time at which the concert was to begin. By ill luck it was a rainy evening. Mrs. Carney placed her daughter's clothes and music in charge of her husband, and went all over the building looking for Mr. Hollahan or Mr. Fitzpatrick. She could find, neither. She asked the stewards, was any member of the committee in the hall, and after a great deal of trouble, a steward brought out a little woman named Miss Bairne, to whom Mrs. Carney explained that she wanted to see one of the secretaries. Miss Bairne expected them any minute, and asked could she do anything. Mrs. Carney looked searchingly at the oldish face, which was screwed into an expression of trustfulness and enthusiasm, and answered, No. Thank you. The little woman hoped that they would have a good house. She looked out at the rain until the melancholy of the wet street effaced all the trustfulness and enthusiasm from her twisted features. Then she gave a little sigh, and said, Ah, well, we did our best, the dear nose. Mrs. Carney had to go back to the dressing-room. The artists were arriving. The base and second tenor had already come. The base, Mr. Dugan, was a slender young man with a scattered black moustache. He was the son of a hall-porter in an office of the city, and as a boy he had sung prolonged base notes in the resounding hall. From this humble state he had raised himself until he had become a first-rate artiste. He had appeared in grand opera. One night, when an operatic artiste had fallen ill, he had undertaken the part of the king in an opera of the Maritania at the Queen's Theatre. He sang his music with great feeling and volume, and was warmly welcomed by the gallery. But unfortunately he marred the good impression by wiping his nose and his gloved hand once or twice out of thoughtlessness. He was unassuming and spoke little. He said use so softly that it passed unnoticed, and never drank anything stronger than milk for his voice's sake. Mr. Bell, the second tenor, was a fair-haired little man, who competed every year for prizes at the Fayus Keele. On his fourth trial he had been awarded a bronze medal. He was extremely nervous and extremely jealous of other tenors, and he covered his nervous delicy with an abdullient friendliness. It was his humour to have people know what an ordeal a concert was to him. Therefore, when he saw Mr. Dugan, he went over to him and asked, Are you in it, too? Yes, said Mr. Dugan. Mr. Bell laughed at his fellow sufferer, held out his hand, and said, Shake. Mrs. Carney passed by these two young men and went to the edge of the screen to view the house. The seats were being filled up rapidly, and a pleasant noise circulated in the auditorium. She came back and spoke to her husband privately. Their conversation was evidently about Kathleen, for they both glanced at her often as she stood chatting to one of her nationalist friends, Miss Healy, the control-toe. An unknown solitary woman with a pale face walked through the room. The women followed with keen eyes, the faded blue dress, which was stretched upon a meagre body. Someone said that she was Madame Glyn, the soprano. I wonder where they did dig her up? said Kathleen to Miss Healy. I'm sure I never heard of her. Miss Healy had to smile. Mr. Hollahan limped into the dressing-room at that moment, and the two young ladies asked him who was the unknown woman. Mr. Hollahan said that she was Madame Glyn from London. Madame Glyn took her stand in a corner of the room, holding a roll of music stiffly before her, and from time to time changing the direction of her startled gaze. The shadow took her faded dress into shelter, but fell revengefully into the little cup behind her collarbone. The noise of the hall became more audible. The first tenor and the baritone arrived together. They were both well-dressed, stout, and complacent, and they brought a breath of opulence among the company. Mrs. Carney brought her daughter over to them, and talked to them amably. She wanted to be on good terms with them, but while she strove to be polite, her eyes followed Mr. Hollahan and his limping and devious courses. As soon as she could, she excused herself and went out after him. Mr. Hollahan, I want to speak to you for a moment," she said. They went down to a discreet part of the corridor. Mrs. Carney asked him when her daughter was going to be paid. Mr. Hollahan said that Mr. Fitzpatrick had charge of that. Mrs. Carney said that she didn't know anything about Mr. Fitzpatrick. Her daughter had signed a contract for eight guineas, and she would have to be paid. Mr. Hollahan said that it wasn't his business. Why isn't it your business? asked Mrs. Carney. Didn't you yourself bring her the contract? Anyway, if it's not your business, it's my business, and I mean to see to it. You'd better speak to Mr. Fitzpatrick," said Mr. Hollahan distantly. I don't know anything about Mr. Fitzpatrick," repeated Mrs. Carney. I have my contract, and I intend to see that it is carried out. When she came back to the dressing-room, her cheeks were slightly suffused. The room was lively. Two men in outdoor dress had taken possession of the fireplace and were chatting familiarly with Miss Healy in the baritone. They were the Freeman man and Mr. O'Madden Burke. The Freeman man had come in to say that he could not wait for the concert, as he had to report the lecture which an American priest was giving in the mansion house. He said they were to leave the report for him at the Freeman office, and that he would see it went in. He was a gray-haired man with a plausible voice and careful manners. He held an extinguished cigar in his hand, and the aroma of cigar smoke floated near him. He had not intended to stay a moment because concerts and artis bored him considerably, but he remained leaning against the mantel-piece. Miss Healy stood in front of him, talking and laughing. He was old enough to suspect one reason for her politeness, but young enough in spirit to turn the moment to account. The warmth, fragrance, and color of her body appealed to his senses. He was pleasantly conscious that the bosom which he saw rise and fall slowly beneath him rose and fell at that moment for him, that the laughter and fragrance and willful glances were his tribute. When he could stay no longer, he took leave of her regretfully. O'Madden Burke will write the notice. He explained to Mr. Hollahan. And I'll see it in. Thank you very much, Mr. Hendrick," said Mr. Hollahan. You'll see it in, I know. Now, won't you have a little something before you go? I don't mind," said Mr. Hendrick. The two men went along some tortuous passages, and up a dark staircase and came to a secluded room where one of the steward was uncorking bottles for a few gentlemen. One of these gentlemen was Mr. O'Madden Burke, who had found out the room by instinct. He was a suave, elderly man, who balanced his imposing body when at rest upon a large silk umbrella. His magniliquent western name was the moral umbrella upon which he balanced the fine problem of his finances. He was widely respected. While Mr. Hollahan was entertaining the Freeman man, Mrs. Carney was speaking so animatedly to her husband that he had to ask her to lower her voice. The conversation of the others in the dressing-room had become strained. Mr. Bell, the first item, stood ready with his music, but the accompanist made no sign. Unfortunately something was wrong. Mr. Carney looked straight before him, stroking his beard, while Mrs. Carney spoke into Kathleen's ear with subdued emphasis. From the hall came sounds of encouragement, clapping and stamping of feet. The first tenor and the baritone and Miss Healy stood together, waiting tranquilly. But Mr. Bell's nerves were greatly agitated because he was afraid the audience would think that he had come late. Mr. Hollahan and Mr. O'Madden Burke came into the room. In a moment Mr. Hollahan perceived the hush. He went over to Mrs. Carney and spoke with her earnestly. While they were speaking, the noise in the hall grew louder. Mr. Hollahan became very red and excited. He spoke volubly, but Mrs. Carney said curtly at intervals. She won't go on. She must get her eight guineas. Mr. Hollahan pointed desperately towards the hall where the audience was clapping and stamping. He appealed to Mr. Carney and to Kathleen. But Mr. Carney continued to stroke his beard, and Kathleen looked down, moving the point of her new shoe. It was not her fault. Mrs. Carney repeated, she won't go on without her money. After a swift struggle of tongues, Mr. Hollahan hobbled out in haste. The room was silent. When the strain of the silence had become somewhat painful, Miss Healy said to the baritone, Have you seen Mrs. Pat Campbell this week? The baritone had not seen her, but he had been told that she was very fine. The conversation went no further. The first tenor bent his head and began to count the lengths of the gold chain, which was extended across his waist, smiling and humming random notes to observe the effect on the frontal sinus. From time to time everyone glanced at Mrs. Carney. The noise in the auditorium had risen to a clamour when Mr. Fitzpatrick burst into the room, followed by Mr. Hollahan, who was panting. The clapping and stamping in the hall were punctuated by whistling. Mr. Fitzpatrick held a few banknotes in his hand. He counted out four into Mrs. Carney's hand, and said that she would get the other half at the interval. Mrs. Carney said, This is for shilling short. But Kathleen gathered in her skirt and said, Now, Mr. Bell, to the first item, who was shaking like an aspirin. The singer and accompanist went out together. The noise in hall died away. There was a pause of a few seconds, and then the piano was heard. The first part of the concert was very successful, except for Madam Glynn's item. The poor lady sang Kalarney in a bodiless, gasping voice, with all the old-fashioned mannerisms of intonation and pronunciation, which she believed lent elegance to her singing. She looked as if she had been resurrected from an old stage wardrobe, and the cheaper parts of the hall made fun of her high, wailing notes. The first tenor in the Contralto, however, brought down the house. Kathleen played a selection of Irish airs which was generously applauded. The first part closed with a stirring patriotic recitation delivered by a young lady, who arranged amateur theatricals. It was deservedly applauded, and when it was ended, the man went out for the interval, content. All this time the dressing-room was a hive of excitement. In one corner were Mr. Hollahan, Mr. Fitzpatrick, Miss Barron, and two of the stewards, the baritone, the bass, and Mr. O'Maddon Burke. Mr. O'Maddon Burke said it was the most scandalous exhibition he had ever witnessed. Miss Kathleen Carney's musical career was ended in Dublin after that, he said. The baritone was asked what did he think of Mrs. Carney's conduct. He did not like to say anything. He had been paid his money and wished to be at peace with men. However, he said that Mrs. Carney might have taken the artisan to consideration. The stewards and the secretaries debated hotly as to what should be done when the interval came. I agree with Miss Barron, said Mr. O'Maddon Burke. Pay her nothing! In another corner of the room were Mrs. Carney and her husband. Mr. Bell, Miss Healy, and the young lady who had to recite the patriotic piece, Mrs. Carney said that the committee had treated her scandalously. She had spared neither trouble nor expense, and this was how she was repaid. They thought they had only a girl to deal with, and that therefore they could ride roughshod over her. But she would show them their mistake. They wouldn't have dared to have treated her like that if she had been a man. But she would see that her daughter got her rights. She wouldn't be fooled. If they didn't pay her to the last farthing, she would make Dublin ring. Of course she was sorry for the sake of the artisans, but what else could she do? She appealed to the second tenor, who said he thought she had not been well treated. Then she appealed to Miss Healy. Miss Healy wanted to join the other group, but she did not like to do so because she was a great friend of Kathleen's, and the Carney's had often invited her to their house. As soon as the first part was ended, Mr. Fitzpatrick and Mr. Hollehan went over to Mrs. Carney, and told her that the other four guineas would be paid after the committee meeting on the following Tuesday, and that in case her daughter did not play for the second part, the committee would consider the contract broken, and would pay nothing. I haven't seen any committee, said Mrs. Carney angrily. My daughter has her contract. She will get four pounds eight into her hand, or a foot she won't put on that platform. I'm surprised at you, Mrs. Carney, said Mr. Hollehan. I never thought she would treat us this way. And what way did you treat me? asked Mrs. Carney. Her face was inundated with an angry colour, and she looked as if she would attack someone with her hands. I'm asking for my rights, she said. You might have a sense of decency, said Mr. Hollehan. Might I indeed? And when I ask when my daughter is going to be paid, I can't get a civil answer. She tossed her head and assumed a hotty voice. You must speak to the secretary. It's not my business. I'm a great fellow. Fall the diddle I do. I thought you were a lady, said Mr. Hollehan, walking away from her abruptly. After that Mrs. Carney's conduct was condemned on all hands. Everyone approved of what the committee had done. She stood at the door, haggard with rage, arguing with her husband and daughter, gesticulating with them. She waited until it was time for the second part to begin, in the hope that the secretaries would approach her. But Miss Healy had kindly consented to play one or two accompaniments. Mrs. Carney had to stand aside to allow the baritone and his accompanist to pass up to the platform. She stood still for an instant, like an angry stone image. And when the first notes of the song struck her ear, she caught up her daughter's cloak and said to her husband, Get a cab. He went out at once. Mrs. Carney wrapped the cloak round her daughter and followed him. As she passed through the doorway she stopped and glared in Mr. Hollehan's face. I'm not done with you yet," she said. But I'm done with you," said Mr. Hollehan. Kathleen followed her mother meekly. Mr. Hollehan began to pace up and down the room in order to cool himself, for his skin was on fire. That's a nice lady," he said. Oh, she's a nice lady! You did the proper thing, Hollehan," said Mr. O'Maddon Burke, poised upon his umbrella in approval. End of A Mother. Two gentlemen who were in the lavatory at the time tried to lift him up, but he was quite helpless. He lay curled up at the foot of the stairs down which he had fallen. They succeeded in turning him over. His hat had rolled a few yards away, and his clothes were smeared with the filth and ooze of the floor on which he had lain, faced downwards. His eyes were closed, and he breathed with a grunting noise. A thin stream of blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. These two gentlemen, in one of the curates, carried him up the stairs and laid him down again on the floor of the bar. In two minutes he was surrounded by a ring of men. The manager of the bar asked everyone who he was and who was with him. No one knew who he was, but one of the curates said he had served the gentleman with a small rum. Was he by himself, asked the manager? No, sir, there was two gentlemen with him. And where are they? No one knew. A voice said, Give him air, he's fainted. The ring of onlookers distended and closed again elastically. A dark metal of blood had formed itself near the man's head on the tasselated floor. The manager, alarmed by the gray pallor of the man's face, sent for a policeman. His collar was unfastened and his necktie undone. He opened eyes for an instant, sighed, and closed them again. One of the gentlemen who had carried him upstairs held a dinged silk hat in his hand. The manager asked repeatedly, did no one knew who the injured man was or where had his friends gone? The door of the bar opened and an immense constable entered, a crowd which had followed him down the laneway collected outside the door, struggling to look in through the glass panels. The manager at once began to narrate what he knew. The constable, a young man with thick immobile features, listened. He moved his head slowly to right and left, and from the manager to the person on the floor, as if he feared to be the victim of some delusion. Then he drew off his glove, produced a small book from his waist, licked the lead of his pencil, and made ready to indict. He asked, in a suspicious provincial accent, Who is the man? What's his name and address? A young man in a cycling suit cleared his way through the ring of bystanders. He knelt down promptly beside the injured man and called for water. The constable knelt down also to help. The young man washed the blood from the injured man's mouth and then called for some brandy. The constable repeated the order in an authoritative voice until a curate came running with the glass. The brandy was forced down the man's throat. In a few seconds he opened his eyes and looked about him. He looked at the circle of faces and then, understanding, strove to rise to his feet. You're all right now? asked the young man in the cycling suit. Shaa, it's nothing, said the injured man, trying to stand up. He was helped to his feet. The manager said something about a hospital and some of the bystanders gave advice. The battered silk hat was placed on the man's head. The constable asked, Where do you live? The man, without answering, began to twirl the ends of his mustache. He made light of his accident. It was nothing, he said, only a little accident. He spoke very thickly. Where do you live? repeated the constable. The man said they were to get a cab for him. While the point was being debated, a tall agile gentleman of fair complexion, wearing a long yellow ulster, came from the far end of the bar. Seeing the spectacle, he called out, Hello, Tom, old man, what's the trouble? Shaa, it's nothing, said the man. The newcomer surveyed the deplorable figure before him and then turned to the constable, saying, It's all right, constable, I'll see him home. The constable touched his helmet and answered, All right, Mr. Power. Come now, Tom, said Mr. Power, taking his friend by the arm. No bones broken. What can you walk? The young man in the cycling suit took the man by the other arm and the crowd divided. How did you get yourself into this mess, asked Mr. Power. The gentleman fell down the stairs, said the young man. I see you there, said the injured man. Not at all. Ain't we have a little? Not now, not now. The three men left the bar and the crowd sifted through the doors to the laneway. The manager brought the constable to the stairs to inspect the scene of the accident. They agreed that the gentleman must have missed his footing. The customers returned to the counter and a curate set about removing the traces of blood from the floor. When they came out into Grafton Street, Mr. Power whistled for an outsider. The injured man said again, as well as he could, I very much, I'll see you there, I hope it will meet again. I ain't Kernan. The shock and the incipient pain had partly sobered him. Don't mention it, said the young man. They shook hands. Mr. Kernan was hoisted onto the car, and while Mr. Power was giving directions to the car-man, he expressed his gratitude to the young man and regretted that they could not have a little drink together. Another time, said the young man. The car drove off towards Westmoreland Street. As it passed Belfast Office, the clock showed half past nine. A keen east wind hit them, blowing from the mouth of the river. Mr. Kernan was huddled together with cold. His friend asked him to tell how the accident had happened. I can't, and he answered, I hung it hard. Show! The other leaned over the well of the car and peered into Mr. Kernan's mouth, but could not see. He struck a match and, sheltering it in the shell of his hands, peered again into the mouth which Mr. Kernan opened obediently. The swaying movement of the car brought the match to and from the opened mouth. The lower teeth and gums were covered with clotted blood, and a minute piece of the tongue seemed to have been bitten off. The match was blown out. That's ugly, said Mr. Power. Shaa! Nothing, said Mr. Kernan, closing his mouth and pulling the collar of his filthy coat across his neck. Mr. Kernan was a commercial traveler of the old school which believed in the dignity of its calling. He had never been seen in the city without a silk hat of some decency and a pair of gators. By grace of these two articles of clothing, he said, a man could always pass muster. He carried on the tradition of his Napoleon, the great black white, whose memory he evoked at times by legend and mimicry. Modern business methods had spared him only so far as to allow him a little office in Crow Street, on the window blind of which was written the name of his firm with the address London E.C. On the mantelpiece of his little office a little leaden battalion of canisters was drawn up, and on the table before the window stood four or five china bowls which were usually half full of a black liquid. From these bowls Mr. Kernan tasted tea. He took a mouthful, drew it up, saturated his palate with it, and then spat it forth into the grate. Then he paused to judge. Mr. Power, a much younger man, was employed in the Royal Irish Constabulary Office in Dublin Castle. The arc of his social rise intersected the arc of his friends decline, but Mr. Kernan's decline was mitigated by the fact that certain of those friends who had known him at his highest point of success still esteemed him as a character. Mr. Power was one of these friends. His inexplicable debts were a byword in his circle. He was a debonair young man. A car halted before a small house on the Glassneven Road, and Mr. Kernan was helped into the house. His wife put him to bed while Mr. Power sat downstairs in the kitchen, asking the children where they went to school and what book they were in. The children, two girls and a boy, conscious of their father's helplessness and of their mother's absence, began some horse play with him. He was surprised at their manners and at their accents, and his brow grew thoughtful. After a while Mrs. Kernan entered the kitchen, exclaiming, such a sight. Oh, he'll do for himself one day, and that's the holy auls of it. He's been drinking since Friday. Mr. Power was careful to explain to her that he was not responsible, that he had come on the scene by the nearest accident. Mrs. Kernan, remembering Mr. Power's good offices during domestic quarrels, as well as many small but opportune loans, said, Oh, you needn't tell me that, Mr. Power. I know you're a friend of his, not like some of the others he does be with. They're all right so long as he has money in his pocket to keep him out from his wife and family. Nice friends. Who is he with tonight? I'd like to know. Mr. Power shook his head, but said nothing. I'm so sorry she continued that I have nothing in the house to offer you. But if you wait a minute, I'll send round to Fogarty's at the corner. Mr. Power stood up. We were waiting for him to come with the money. He never seems to think he has a home at all. Oh, now Mrs. Kernan said, Mr. Power, we'll make him turn over a new leaf. I'll talk to Martin. He's the man. We'll come here one of these nights and talk it over. She saw him to the door. The carman was stamping up and down the footpath and swinging his arms to warm himself. It's very kind of you to bring him home, she said. Not at all, said Mr. Power. He got up on the car. As it drove off he raised his hat to her gaily. We'll make a new man of him, he said. Good night, Mrs. Kernan. Mrs. Kernan's puzzled eyes watched the car till it was out of sight. Then she withdrew them, went into the house, and emptied her husband's pockets. She was an active, practical woman of middle age. Not long before she had celebrated her silver wedding and renewed her intimacy with her husband by waltzing with him to Mr. Power's accompaniment. In her days of courtship Mr. Kernan had seemed to her a not unglant figure, and she still hurried to the chapel door whenever a wedding was reported, and, seeing the bridal pair, recalled with vivid pleasure how she had passed out of the star of the sea-church in Sandymount, leaning on the arm of a jovial, well-fed man who was dressed smartly in a frock coat and lavender trousers, and carried a silk hat gracefully balanced upon his other arm. After three weeks she had found a wife's life irksome, and, later on, when she was beginning to find it unbearable, she had become a mother. The part of mother presented to her no insupportable difficulties, and for twenty-five years she had kept house shrewdly for her husband. Her two eldest sons were launched. One was in a draper's shop in Glasgow, and the other was clerked to a tea-merchant in Belfast. They were good sons, wrote regularly, and sometimes sent home money. The other children were still at school. Mr. Kernan sent a letter to his office next day and remained in bed. She made beef tea for him and scolded him roundly. She accepted his frequent intemperance as part of the climate. She scolded him dutifully whenever he was sick, and always tried to make him eat a breakfast. There were worse husbands. He had never been violent since the boys had grown up, and she knew that he would walk to the end of Thomas Street and back again to book even a small order. Two nights after his friends came to see him. She brought them up to his bedroom, the air of which was impregnated with a personal odor, and gave them chairs at the fire. Mr. Kernan's tongue, the occasional stinging pain of which had made him somewhat irritable during the day, became more polite. He sat propped up in bed by pillows and the little color in his puffy cheeks made them resemble warm cinders. He apologized to his guests for the disorder of the room, but at the same time looked at them a little proudly with a veteran's pride. He was quite unconscious that he was the victim of a plot which his friends, Mr. Cunningham, Mr. McCoy, and Mr. Power had disclosed to Mrs. Kernan in the parlor. The idea had been Mr. Power's, but its development was entrusted to Mr. Cunningham. Mr. Kernan came of Protestant stock, and though he had been converted to the Catholic faith at the time of his marriage, he had not been in the pale of the church for twenty years. He was fond, moreover, of giving side thrusts at Catholicism. Mr. Cunningham was the very man for such a case. He was an elder colleague of Mr. Power. His own domestic life was very happy. People had great sympathy with him, for it was known that he had married an unpresentable woman who was an incurable drunkard. He had set up house for her six times, and each time she had pawned the furniture on him. Everyone had respect for poor Martin Cunningham. He was a thoroughly sensible man, influential and intelligent. His blade of human knowledge, natural astuteness, particularized by long association with cases in the police courts, had been tempered by brief immersions in the waters of general philosophy. He was well informed. His friends bowed to his opinions, and considered that his face was like Shakespeare's. When the plot had been disclosed to her, Mrs. Kernan had said, I leave it all in your hands, Mr. Cunningham. After a quarter of a century of married life, she had very few illusions left. Religion for her was a habit, and she suspected that a man of her husband's age would not change greatly before death. She was tempted to see a curious appropriateness in his accident, and, but that she did not wish to seem bloody-minded, would have told the gentleman that Mr. Kernan's tongue would not suffer by being shortened. However, Mr. Cunningham was a capable man, and religion was religion. The scheme might do good, and at least it could do no harm. Her beliefs were not extravagant. She believed steadily in the Sacred Heart as the most generally useful of all Catholic devotions, and approved of the sacraments. Her faith was bounded by her kitchen, but if she was put to it, she could believe also in the band she and in the Holy Ghost. The gentleman began to talk of the accident. Mr. Cunningham said that he had once known a similar case. A man of seventy had bitten off a piece of his tongue during an epileptic fit, and the tongue had filled in again so that no one could see a trace of the bite. Well, I'm not seventy, said the invalid. God forbid, said Mr. Cunningham. It doesn't pain you now? asked Mr. McCoy. Mr. McCoy had been, at one time, a tenor of some reputation. His wife, who had been a soprano, still taught young children to play the piano at low terms. His line of life had not been the shortest distance between two points, and for short periods he had been driven to live by his wits. He had been a clerk in the Midland Railway, a canvasser for advertisements for the Irish Times and for the Freeman's Journal, a town traveller for a coal firm on commission, a private inquiry agent, a clerk in the office of the subsheriff, and he had recently become secretary to the city coroner. His new office made him professionally interested in Mr. Cunningham's case. Pain? not much, answered Mr. Cunningham. But it's so sickening. I feel as if I wanted to wretch off. That's the booze, said Mr. Cunningham, firmly. No, said Mr. Cunningham. I think I caught cold on the car. There's something keeps coming into my throat, flim or mucus, said Mr. McCoy. It keeps coming like from down in my throat, sickening. Yes, yes, said Mr. McCoy, that's the thorax. He looked at Mr. Cunningham and Mr. Power at the same time with an air of challenge. Mr. Cunningham nodded his head rapidly, and Mr. Power said, ah, well, all's well that ends well. I'm very much obliged to you, old man, said the invalid. Mr. Power waved his hand. Those other two fellows I was with. Who were you with, asked Mr. Cunningham. A chap, I don't know his name. Damn it, now, what's his name? Little chap with sandy hair. And who else? Harford. Hmm, said Mr. Cunningham. When Mr. Cunningham made that remark, people were silent. It was known that the speaker had secret sources of information. In this case, the monosyllable had a moral intention. Mr. Harford sometimes formed one of a little detachment which left the city shortly after noon on Sunday with the purpose of arriving as soon as possible at some public-house on the outskirts of the city where its members duly qualified themselves as bona fide travelers. But his fellow travelers had never consented to overlook his origin. He had begun life as an obscure financier by lending small sums of money to workmen at usurious interest. Later on he had become the partner of a very fat, short gentleman, Mr. Goldberg, in the Liffey Lone Bank. Though he had never embraced more than the Jewish ethical code, his fellow Catholics, whenever they had smarted in person or by proxy under his exactions, spoke of him bitterly as an Irish Jew and an illiterate, and saw divine disapproval of usury made manifest through the person of his idiot son. At other times they remembered his good points. I wonder where did he go to, said Mr. Kernan. He wished the details of the incident to remain vague. He wished his friends to think that there had been some mistake, that Mr. Harford and he had missed each other. His friends, who knew quite well Mr. Harford's manners in drinking, were silent. Mr. Power said again, all's well that ends well. Mr. Kernan changed the subject at once. That was a decent young chap, that medical fellow, he said. Only for him. Oh, only for him, said Mr. Power. It might have been a case of seven days without the option of a fine. Yes, yes, said Mr. Kernan, trying to remember. I remember now there was a policeman, a decent young fellow he seemed. How did it happen at all? It happened that you were peluthered, Tom, said Mr. Kernan, cunning him gravely. True Bill, said Mr. Kernan, equally gravely. I suppose you squared the constable jack, said Mr. McCoy. Mr. Power did not relish the use of his Christian name. He was not straight laced, but he could not forget that Mr. McCoy had recently made a crusade in search of valises and portmanteaus to enable Mrs. McCoy to fulfill imaginary engagements in the country. More than he resented the fact that he had been victimized, he resented such low playing of the game. He answered the question therefore as if Mr. Kernan had asked it. The narrative made Mr. Kernan indignant. He was keenly conscious of his citizenship, wished to live with his city on terms mutually honorable, and resented any affront put upon him by those whom he called country bumpkins. Is this what we pay rates for, he asked, to feed and clothe these ignorant bastooms, and they're nothing else? Mr. Cunningham laughed. He was a castle official only during office hours. How could they be anything else, Tom? he said. He assumed a thick, provincial accent, and said in a tone of command, 65, catch your cabbage! Everyone laughed. Mr. McCoy, who wanted to enter the conversation by any door, pretended that he had never heard the story. Mr. Cunningham said, It is supposed, they say, you know, to take place in the depot where they get these thundering big country fellows, oh, my dunes, you know, to drill. The sergeant makes them stand in a row against the wall and hold up their plates. He illustrated the story by grotesque gestures. At dinner, you know, then he has a bloody big bowl of cabbage before him on the table, and a bloody big spoon like a shovel. He takes up a wad of cabbage on the spoon and pegs it across the room, and the poor devils have to try and catch it on their plates. 65, catch your cabbage! Everyone laughed again, but Mr. Cunningham was somewhat indignant still. He talked of writing letters to the papers. These yahoo's coming up here, he said, think they can boss the people. I needn't tell you, Martin, what kind of men they are. Mr. Cunningham gave a qualified ascent. It's like everything else in this world, he said. You get some bad ones, and you get some good ones. Oh, yes, you get some good ones, I admit, said Mr. Cunningham satisfied. It's better to have nothing to say to them, said Mr. McCoy. That's my opinion. Mrs. Kernan entered the room and, placing a tray on the table, said, help yourselves, gentlemen. Mr. Power stood up to officiate, offering her his chair. She declined it, saying she was ironing downstairs. And, after having exchanged a nod with Mr. Cunningham behind Mr. Power's back, prepared to leave the room. Her husband called out to her. And have you nothing for me, Ducky? Oh, you, the back of my hand to you, said Mrs. Kernan tartly. Her husband called after her. Nothing for poor little hubby? He assumed such a comical face and voice that the distribution of the bottles of stout took place amid general merriment. The gentlemen drank from their glasses, set the glasses again on the table, and paused. Then Mr. Cunningham turned toward Mr. Power and said casually, On Thursday night you said, Jack. Thursday, yes, said Mr. Power. Right oh, said Mr. Cunningham promptly. We can meet in Macaulay, said Mr. McCoy. That'll be the most convenient place. But we mustn't be late, said Mr. Power earnestly, because it is sure to be crammed to the doors. We can meet at half seven, said Mr. McCoy. Right oh, said Mr. Cunningham. Half seven at Macaulay's be it. There was a short silence. Mr. Kernan waited to see whether he would be taken into his friend's confidence. Then he asked, what's in the wind? Oh, it's nothing, said Mr. Cunningham. It's only a little matter that we're arranging about for Thursday. The opera is it, said Mr. Kernan. No, no, said Mr. Cunningham in an evasive tone. It's just a little spiritual matter. Oh, said Mr. Kernan. There was silence again. Then Mr. Power said point blank. To tell you the truth, Tom, we're going to make a retreat. Yes, that's it, said Mr. Cunningham. Jack and I and McCoy here were all going to wash the pot. He uttered the metaphor with a certain homely energy and, encouraged by his own voice, proceeded. You see, we may as well all admit we're a nice collection of scoundrels, one in all I say, one in all he added, with gruff charity and turning to Mr. Power. Own up now. I own up, said Mr. Power. And I own up, said Mr. McCoy. So we're going to wash the pot together, said Mr. Cunningham. A thought seemed to strike him. He turned suddenly to the invalid and said, Do you know what, Tom, has just occurred to me? You might join in and we'll have a forehanded reel. Good idea, said Mr. Power, the four of us together. Mr. Kernan was silent. The proposal conveyed very little meaning to his mind, but understanding that some spiritual agencies were about to concern themselves on his behalf, he thought he owed it to his dignity to show a stiff neck. He took no part in the conversation for a long while, but listened with an air of calm enmity while his friends discussed the Jesuits. I haven't such a bad opinion of the Jesuits, he said, interweaning at length. They're in educated order. I believe they mean well, too. They're the grandest order in the church, Tom, said Mr. Cunningham, with enthusiasm. The general of the Jesuits stands next to the Pope. There's no mistake about it, said Mr. McCoy. If you want a thing well done and no flies about, you go to a Jesuit. There the boyos have influence. I'll tell you a case in point. The Jesuits are a fine body of men, said Mr. Power. It's a curious thing, said Mr. Cunningham, about the Jesuit order. Every other order of the church had to be reformed at some time or other, but the Jesuit order was never once reformed. It never fell away. Is that so? asked Mr. McCoy. That's a fact, said Mr. Cunningham. That's history. Look at their church, too, said Mr. Power. Look at the congregation they have. The Jesuits cater for the upper classes, said Mr. McCoy. Of course, said Mr. Power. Yes, said Mr. Cunningham. That's why I have a feeling for them. It's some of those secular priests, ignorant, bumptuous. They're all good men, said Mr. Cunningham, each in his own way. The Irish priesthood is honored all the world over. Oh, yes, said Mr. Power. Not like some of the other priesthoods on the continent, said Mr. McCoy, unworthy of the name. Perhaps you're right, said Mr. Cunningham, relenting. Of course I'm right, said Mr. Cunningham. I haven't been in the world all this time and seen most sides of it without being a judge of character. The gentleman drank again, one following another's example. Mr. Kernan seemed to be weighing something in his mind. He was impressed. He had a high opinion of Mr. Cunningham as a judge of character and as a reader of faces. He asked for particulars. Oh, it's just a retreat, you know, said Mr. Cunningham. Father Purden is giving it. It's for businessmen, you know. He won't be too hard on us, Tom, said Mr. Power persuasively. Father Purden, Father Purden, said the invalid. Oh, you must know him, Tom, said Mr. Cunningham stoutly. Fine, jolly fellow. He's a man of the world, like ourselves. Yes, I think I know him. Rather red face, tall. That's the man. And tell me, Martin, is he a good preacher? No, it's not exactly a sermon, you know. It's just kind of a friendly talk, you know, in a common sense way. Mr. Kernan deliberated. Mr. McCoy said, Father Tom Burke, that was the boy. Oh, Father Tom Burke, said Mr. Cunningham, that was a born orator. Did you ever hear him, Tom? Did I ever hear him, said the invalid, meddled. Rather, I heard him, and yet they say he wasn't much of a theologian, said Mr. Cunningham. Is that so, said Mr. McCoy? Oh, of course nothing wrong, you know. Only sometimes they say he didn't preach what was quite orthodox. Ah, he was a splendid man, said Mr. McCoy. I heard him once, Mr. Kernan continued. I forget the subject of his discourse now. Crofton and I were in the back of the pit, you know, the body, said Mr. Cunningham. Yes, in the back near the door. I forget now what. Oh yes, it was on the Pope, the late Pope. I remember it well. Upon my word it was magnificent, the style of the oratory. And his voice. God, hadn't he a voice? The prisoner of the Vatican, he called him. I remember Crofton saying to me when we came out. But he's an orangeman, Crofton, isn't he? Said Mr. Power. Of course he is, said Mr. Kernan, and a damn decent orangeman, too. We went in butlers in Moore Street. Faith was genuinely moved, tell you the God's truth. And I remember well, his very words. Kernan, he said, we worship at different altars, he said, but our belief is the same. It struck me as very well put. There's a good deal in that, said Mr. Power. There used always to be crowds of Protestants in the chapel where Father Tom was preaching. There's not much difference between us, said Mr. McCoy. We both believe in, he hesitated for a moment. In the Redeemer, only they don't believe in the Pope and in the mother of God. But of course, said Mr. Cunningham, quietly and effectively. Our religion is the religion, the old, original faith. Not a doubt of it, said Mr. Kernan warmly. Mrs. Kernan came to the door of the bedroom and announced, here's a visitor for you. Who is it? Mr. Fogarty, oh, come in, come in. A pale, oval face came forward into the light. The arch of its fair trailing mustache was repeated in the fair eyebrows looped above pleasantly astonished eyes. Mr. Fogarty was a modest grocer. He had failed in business in a licensed house in the city because his financial condition had constrained him to tie himself to second-class distillers and brewers. He had opened a small shop on Glasnevin Road where he flattered himself. His manners would ingratiate him with the housewives of the district. He bore himself with a certain grace, complimented little children, and spoke with a neat enunciation. He was not without culture. Mr. Fogarty brought a gift with him, a half pint of special whiskey. He inquired politely for Mr. Kernan, placed his gift on the table, and sat down with the company on equal terms. Mr. Kernan appreciated the gift all the more since he was aware that there was a small account for groceries unsettled between him and Mr. Fogarty. He said, I wouldn't doubt you, old man. Open that, Jack, will you? Mr. Power again officiated. Glasses were rinsed and five small measures of whiskey were poured out. The new influence enlivened the conversation. Mr. Fogarty, sitting on a small area of the chair, was specially interested. Pope Leo XIII, said Mr. Kernan, was one of the delights of the age. His great idea, you know, was the union of the Latin and Greek churches. That was the aim of his life. I often heard he was one of the most intellectual men in Europe, said Mr. Power. I mean, apart from his being pope. So he was, said Mr. Kernan. If not the most so, his motto, you know, as pope was, Lux upon Lux, Light upon Light. No, no, said Mr. Fogarty, eagerly. I think you're wrong there. It was Lux in Tenebrus, I think, Light in Darkness. Oh yes, said Mr. McCoy, Tenebrae. Allow me, said Mr. Cunningham positively. It was Lux upon Lux. And pious the ninth, his predecessors motto was Crooks upon Crooks, that is, Cross upon Cross, to show the difference between their two pontificates. The inference was allowed. Mr. Cunningham continued. Pope Leo, you know, was a great scholar and a poet. He had a strong face, said Mr. Kernan. Yes, said Mr. Cunningham. He wrote Latin poetry. Is that so, said Mr. Fogarty. Mr. McCoy tasted his whiskey contentedly and shook his head with a double intention, saying, that's no joke, I can tell you. We didn't learn that, Tom, said Mr. Power, following Mr. McCoy's example, when we went to the Penny-a-week school. There was many a good man went to the Penny-a-week school with a sod of turf under his oxter, said Mr. Kernan, sententiously. The old system was the best, plain, honest education, none of your modern trumpery. Quite right, said Mr. Power. No superfluities, said Mr. Fogarty. He enunciated the word and then drank gravely. I remember reading, said Mr. Cunningham, that one of Pope Leo's poems was on the invention of the photograph in Latin, of course. On the photograph, exclaimed Mr. Kernan. Yes, said Mr. Cunningham. He also drank from his glass. Well, you know, said Mr. McCoy, isn't the photograph wonderful when you come to think of it? Of course, said Mr. Power, great minds can see things. As the poet says, great minds are very near to madness, said Mr. Fogarty. Mr. Kernan seemed to be troubled in mind. He made an effort to recall the Protestant theology on some thorny points and in the end addressed Mr. Cunningham. Tell me, Martin, he said. Weren't some of the popes, of course, not our present man or his predecessor, but some of the old popes? Not exactly, you know, up to the knocker? There was a silence. Mr. Cunningham said, oh, of course there were some bad lots, but the astounding thing is this, not one of them, not the biggest drunkard, not the most out-and-out ruffian, not one of them ever preached ex-cathedra, a word of false doctrine. Now, isn't that an astonishing thing? That is, said Mr. Kernan. Yes, because when the pope speaks ex-cathedra, Mr. Fogarty explained he is infallible. Yes, said Mr. Cunningham. Oh, I know about the infallibility of the pope. I remember I was younger then, or was it that? Mr. Fogarty interrupted. He took up the bottle and helped the others to a little more. Mr. McCoy, seeing that there was not enough to go round, pleaded that he had not finished his first measure. The others accepted under protest. The light music of whiskey falling into glasses made an agreeable interlude. What's that you were saying, Tom? asked Mr. McCoy. Papal infallibility, said Mr. Cunningham. That was the greatest scene in the whole history of the church. How was that, Martin? asked Mr. Power. Mr. Cunningham held up two thick fingers. In the Sacred College, you know, of cardinals and archbishops and bishops, there were two men who held out against it while the others were all for it. The whole conclave, except these two, was unanimous. No, they wouldn't have it. Ha, said Mr. McCoy. And they were a German cardinal by the name of Dolling or Dowling, or Dowling was no German. That's a sure five, said Mr. Power, laughing. Well, this great German cardinal, whatever his name was, was one. And the other was John McHale. What? cried Mr. Cunningham. Is it John of 2M? Are you sure of that now? asked Mr. Fogarty Dubesly. I thought it was some Italian or American. John of 2M repeated Mr. Cunningham was the man. He drank, and the other gentlemen followed his lead. Then he resumed. There they were at it, all the cardinals and bishops and archbishops from all the ends of the earth, and these two fighting dog and devil until at last the Pope himself stood up and declared infallibility a dogma of the church ex-cathedra. On the very moment John McHale, who had been arguing and arguing against it, stood up and shouted out with the voice of a lion, Credo! I believe, said Mr. Fogarty. Credo, said Mr. Cunningham, that showed the faith he had. He submitted the moment the Pope spoke. And what about Dowling? asked Mr. McCoy. The German cardinal wouldn't submit. He left the church. Mr. Cunningham's words had built up the vast image of the church in the minds of his hearers. His deep, raucous voice had thrilled them as it uttered the word of belief and submission. When Mrs. Cunningham came into the room, drying her hands, she came into a solemn company. She did not disturb the silence, but leaned over the rail at the foot of the bed. I once saw John McHale, said Mr. Cunningham, and I'll never forget it as long as I live. He turned towards his wife to be confirmed. I often told you that? Mrs. Cunning nodded. It was at the unveiling of Sir John Gray's statue. Edmund Dwyer Gray was speaking, blathering away. And here was this old fellow, crabbed-looking old chap, looking at him from under his bushy eyebrows. Mr. Cunning knitted his brows, and lowering his head like an angry bull, glared at his wife. God! he exclaimed, resuming his natural face. I never saw such an eye in a man's head. It was as much as to say, I have you properly taped, my lad. He had an eye like a hawk. None of the Gray's were any goods, said Mr. Power. There was a pause again. Mr. Power turned to Mrs. Cunning, and said with abrupt joviality, Well, Mrs. Cunning, we're going to make your man here a good holy pious and God-fearing Roman Catholic. He swept his arm round the company inclusively. We're all going to make a retreat together, and confess our sins. And God knows we want it badly. I don't mind, said Mr. Cunning, smiling a little nervously. Mrs. Cunning thought it would be wiser to conceal her satisfaction. So she said, I pity the poor priest that has to listen to your tale. Mr. Cunning's expression changed. If he doesn't like it, he said bluntly. He can do the other thing. I'll just tell him my little tale of woe. I'm not such a bad fellow. Mr. Cunning him intervened promptly. We'll all renounce the devil, he said, together, not forgetting his works and pumps. Get behind me, Satan, said Mr. Fogarty, laughing and looking at the others. Mr. Power said nothing. He felt completely out-generaled, but a pleased expression flickered across his face. All we have to do, said Mr. Cunning him, is to stand up with lighted candles in our hands and renew our baptismal vows. Oh, don't forget the candle, Tom, said McCoy. Whatever you do. What? said Mr. Cunning. Must I have a candle? Oh, yes, said Mr. Cunning him. No, damn it all, said Mr. Cunning sensibly. I draw the line there. I'll do the job right enough. I'll do the retreat business and confession and all that business, but no candles. No, damn it all. I bar the candles. He shook his head with farcical gravity. Listen to that, said his wife. I bar the candles, said Mr. Cunning, conscious of having created an effect on his audience and continuing to shake his head to and fro. I bar the magic lantern business. Everyone laughed heartily. There's a nice Catholic for you, said his wife. No candles, repeated Mr. Cunning obdurately. That's off. The transept of the Jesuit church in Gardner Street was almost full, and still at every moment gentlemen entered from the side door and, directed by the lay brother, walked on tiptoe along the aisles until they found seating accommodation. The gentlemen were all well dressed and orderly. The light of the lamps of the church fell upon an assembly of black clothes and white colors, relieved here and there by tweeds, on dark mottled pillars of green marble, and on lugubrious canvases. The gentlemen sat in the benches, having hitched their trousers slightly above their knees, and laid their hats in security. They sat well back, and gazed formally at the distant speck of red light, which was suspended before the high altar. In one of the benches near the pulpit sat Mr. Cunningham and Mr. Kernan. In the bench behind sat Mr. McCoy alone, and in the bench behind him sat Mr. Power and Mr. Fogarty. Mr. McCoy had tried unsuccessfully to find a place in the bench with the others, and when the party had settled down in the form of a quincunx, he had tried unsuccessfully to make comic remarks. As these had not been well received, he had desisted. Even he was sensible of the decorous atmosphere, and even he began to respond to the religious stimulus. In a whisper, Mr. Cunningham drew Mr. Kernan's attention to Mr. Harford, the moneylender, who sat some distance off, and to Mr. Fanning, the registration agent and mayor-maker of the city, who was sitting immediately under the pulpit beside one of the newly elected councillors of the ward. To the right sat old Michael Grimes, the owner of three pawnbrokers' shops, and Dan Hogan's nephew, who was up for the job in the town clerk's office. Farther in front sat Mr. Hendrick, the chief reporter of the Freeman's Journal, and poor O'Carroll, an old friend of Mr. Kernan's, who had been at one time a considerable commercial figure. Gradually, as he recognized familiar faces, Mr. Kernan began to feel more at home. His hat, which had been rehabilitated by his wife, rested upon his knees. Once or twice he pulled down his cuffs with one hand while he held the brim of his hat lightly but firmly with the other hand. A powerful-looking figure, the upper part of which was draped with a white surplus, was observed to be struggling into the pulpit. Simultaneously, the congregation unsettled, produced handkerchiefs, and knelt upon them with care. Mr. Kernan followed the general example. The priest's figure now stood upright in the pulpit, two-thirds of its bulk, crowned by a massive red face appearing above the balustrade. Father Purden knelt down, turned towards the red speck of light, and, covering his face with his hands, prayed. After an interval, he uncovered his face and rose. The congregation rose also, and settled again on its benches. Mr. Kernan restored his hat to its original position on his knee, and presented an attentive face to the preacher. The preacher turned back each wide sleeve of his surplus with an elaborate, large gesture, and slowly surveyed the array of faces. Then he said, For the children of this world are wiser in their generation than the children of light. Wherefore make unto yourselves friends out of the mammon of iniquity, so that when you die they may receive you into everlasting dwellings. Father Purden developed the text with resonant assurance. It was one of the most difficult texts in all the scriptures he said to interpret properly. It was a text which might seem to the casual observer at variance with the lofty morality elsewhere preached by Jesus Christ. But he told his hearers, The text had seemed to him especially adapted for the guidance of those whose lot it was to lead the life of the world, and yet who wished to lead the life not in the manner of worldlings. It was a text for businessmen and professional men. Jesus Christ, with his divine understanding of every cranny of our human nature, understood that all men were not called to the religious life, that by far the vast majority were forced to live in the world and, to a certain extent, for the world, and in the sentence he designed to give them a word of counsel, setting before them as exemplars in the religious life those very worshipers of mammon who were of all men the least solicitous in matters religious. He told his hearers that he was there that evening for no terrifying, no extravagant purpose, but as a man of the world speaking to his fellow men. He came to speak to businessmen, and he would speak to them in a business-like way. If he might use the metaphor, he said, he was their spiritual accountant, and he wished each and every one of his hearers to open his books, the books of his spiritual life, and see if they tallied accurately with conscience. Jesus Christ was not a hard taskmaster. He understood our little failings, understood the weakness of our poor, fallen nature, understood the temptations of this life. We might have had, we all had from time to time, our temptations. We might have, we all had, our failings. But one thing only, he said, he would ask of his hearers. And that was, to be straight and manly with God. If their accounts tallied in every point to say, well, I have verified my accounts, I find all well. But if, as might happen, there were some discrepancies, to admit the truth, to be frank, and say like a man, well, I have looked into my accounts, I find this wrong and this wrong. But with God's grace, I will rectify this and this. I will set right my accounts. End of Grace by James Joyce. Read by Richard Wallace, Liberty, Missouri, 10 April 2009.