THE cars came scudding
in
towards
Dublin, running
evenly
like
pellets
in
the groove
of
the Naas Road.
At
the
crest
of
the
hill
at
Inchicore sightseers had gathered
in
clumps
to
watch
the cars careering
homeward
and
through
this
channel
of
poverty
and
inaction the
Continent
sped its
wealth
and
industry.
Now
and
again
the clumps
of
people
raised the cheer
of
the gratefully oppressed.
Their
sympathy, however,
was
for
the blue cars—the cars
of
their
friends, the French. The French, moreover,
were
virtual
victors.
Their
team
had finished solidly;
they
had been placed
second
and
third
and
the driver
of
the winning German
car
was
reported
a
Belgian.
Each
blue car, therefore, received
a
double
measure
of
welcome
as
it
topped the
crest
of
the
hill
and
each
cheer
of
welcome
was
acknowledged
with
smiles
and
nods
by
those
in
the car.
In
one
of
these
trimly built cars
was
a
party
of
four
young
men
whose
spirits seemed
to
be
at
present
well
above
the
level
of
successful Gallicism:
in
fact,
these
four
young
men
were
almost
hilarious.
They
were
Charles Segouin, the owner
of
the car; Andre Riviere,
a
young
electrician
of
Canadian birth;
a
huge
Hungarian named Villona
and
a
neatly groomed
young
man
named Doyle. Segouin
was
in
good
humour
because
he
had unexpectedly received
some
orders
in
advance (he
was
about
to
start
a
motor
establishment
in
Paris)
and
Riviere
was
in
good
humour
because
he
was
to
be
appointed manager
of
the establishment;
these
two
young
men (who
were
cousins)
were
also
in
good
humour
because
of
the
success
of
the French cars. Villona
was
in
good
humour
because
he
had had
a
very
satisfactory
luncheon;
and
besides
he
was
an
optimist
by
nature. The
fourth
member
of
the party, however,
was
too
excited
to
be
genuinely happy.
He
was
about
twenty-six years
of
age,
with
a
soft,
light
brown moustache
and
rather
innocent-looking grey eyes.
His
father,
who
had begun
life
as
an advanced Nationalist, had modified
his
views early.
He
had
made
his
money
as
a
butcher
in
Kingstown
and
by
opening
shops
in
Dublin
and
in
the suburbs
he
had
made
his
money
many
times over.
He
had
also
been
fortunate
enough
to
secure
some
of
the
police
contracts
and
in
the
end
he
had
become
rich
enough
to
be
alluded
to
in
the Dublin newspapers
as
a
merchant
prince.
He
had sent
his
son
to
England
to
be
educated
in
a
big
Catholic
college
and
had afterwards sent
him
to
Dublin
University
to
study
law. Jimmy
did
not
study
very
earnestly
and
took
to
bad
courses
for
a
while.
He
had
money
and
he
was
popular;
and
he
divided
his
time
curiously
between
musical
and
motoring circles.
Then
he
had been sent
for
a
term
to
Cambridge
to
see
a
little
life.
His
father, remonstrative, but covertly
proud
of
the excess, had paid
his
bills
and
brought
him
home.
It
was
at
Cambridge
that
he
had met Segouin.
They
were
not
much
more
than
acquaintances
as
yet
but Jimmy found
great
pleasure
in
the
society
of
one
who
had seen
so
much
of
the
world
and
was
reputed
to
own
some
of
the biggest hotels
in
France.
Such
a
person
(as
his
father agreed)
was
well
worth
knowing,
even
if
he
had not been the charming
companion
he
was. Villona
was
entertaining also—a
brilliant
pianist—but, unfortunately,
very
poor. The
car
ran
on
merrily
with
its
cargo
of
hilarious
youth. The
two
cousins sat
on
the
front
seat; Jimmy
and
his
Hungarian
friend
sat behind. Decidedly Villona
was
in
excellent
spirits;
he
kept
up
a
deep
bass
hum
of
melody
for
miles
of
the road. The Frenchmen flung
their
laughter
and
light
words
over
their
shoulders
and
often
Jimmy had
to
strain forward
to
catch
the
quick
phrase.
This
was
not altogether
pleasant
for
him,
as
he
had nearly
always
to
make
a
deft
guess
at
the meaning
and
shout
back
a
suitable
answer
in
the face
of
a
high wind. Besides Villona's humming would confuse anybody; the
noise
of
the car, too.
Rapid
motion
through space elates one;
so
does notoriety;
so
does the
possession
of
money.
These
were
three
good
reasons
for
Jimmy's excitement.
He
had been seen
by
many
of
his
friends
that
day
in
the
company
of
these
Continentals.
At
the control Segouin had presented
him
to
one
of
the French competitors and,
in
answer
to
his
confused
murmur
of
compliment, the swarthy face
of
the driver had disclosed
a
line
of
shining
white
teeth.
It
was
pleasant
after
that
honour
to
return
to
the
profane
world
of
spectators
amid
nudges
and
significant
looks.
Then
as
to
money—he really had
a
great
sum
under
his
control. Segouin, perhaps, would not
think
it
a
great
sum
but Jimmy who,
in
spite
of
temporary
errors,
was
at
heart
the inheritor
of
solid
instincts knew
well
with
what
difficulty
it
had been got together.
This
knowledge
had previously kept
his
bills within the limits
of
reasonable
recklessness, and,
if
he
had been
so
conscious
of
the labour
latent
in
money
when
there had been
question
merely
of
some
freak
of
the higher intelligence,
how
much
more
so
now
when
he
was
about
to
stake
the greater
part
of
his
substance!
It
was
a
serious
thing
for
him.
Of
course, the investment
was
a
good
one
and
Segouin had managed
to
give
the
impression
that
it
was
by
a
favour
of
friendship
the
mite
of
Irish
money
was
to
be
included
in
the
capital
of
the concern. Jimmy had
a
respect
for
his
father's shrewdness
in
business
matters
and
in
this
case
it
had been
his
father
who
had first suggested the investment;
money
to
be
made
in
the
motor
business, pots
of
money. Moreover Segouin had the unmistakable air
of
wealth. Jimmy
set
out
to
translate
into
days'
work
that
lordly
car
in
which
he
sat.
How
smoothly
it
ran.
In
what
style
they
had
come
careering
along
the
country
roads! The
journey
laid
a
magical
finger
on
the
genuine
pulse
of
life
and
gallantly the
machinery
of
human
nerves strove
to
answer
the bounding courses
of
the swift blue animal.
They
drove
down
Dame
Street. The
street
was
busy
with
unusual traffic,
loud
with
the horns
of
motorists
and
the gongs
of
impatient
tram-drivers.
Near
the
Bank
Segouin drew
up
and
Jimmy
and
his
friend
alighted.
A
little
knot
of
people
collected
on
the footpath
to
pay
homage
to
the snorting motor. The
party
was
to
dine
together
that
evening
in
Segouin's
hotel
and, meanwhile, Jimmy
and
his
friend,
who
was
staying
with
him,
were
to
go
home
to
dress. The
car
steered
out
slowly
for
Grafton
Street
while
the
two
young
men pushed
their
way
through the knot
of
gazers.
They
walked
northward
with
a
curious
feeling
of
disappointment
in
the exercise,
while
the
city
hung
its
pale
globes
of
light
above
them
in
a
haze
of
summer
evening.
In
Jimmy's
house
this
dinner
had been pronounced an occasion.
A
certain
pride
mingled
with
his
parents' trepidation,
a
certain
eagerness, also,
to
play
fast
and
loose
for
the names
of
great
foreign
cities
have
at
least
this
virtue. Jimmy, too, looked
very
well
when
he
was
dressed and,
as
he
stood
in
the
hall
giving
a
last
equation
to
the bows
of
his
dress tie,
his
father
may
have
felt
even
commercially satisfied
at
having secured
for
his
son
qualities
often
unpurchaseable.
His
father, therefore,
was
unusually
friendly
with
Villona
and
his
manner
expressed
a
real
respect
for
foreign
accomplishments; but
this
subtlety
of
his
host
was
probably lost
upon
the Hungarian,
who
was
beginning
to
have
a
sharp
desire
for
his
dinner. The
dinner
was
excellent, exquisite. Segouin, Jimmy decided, had
a
very
refined taste. The
party
was
increased
by
a
young
Englishman named Routh
whom
Jimmy had seen
with
Segouin
at
Cambridge. The
young
men supped
in
a
snug
room
lit
by
electric
candle-lamps.
They
talked volubly
and
with
little
reserve. Jimmy,
whose
imagination
was
kindling, conceived the
lively
youth
of
the Frenchmen twined elegantly
upon
the
firm
framework
of
the Englishman's manner.
A
graceful
image
of
his,
he
thought,
and
a
just
one.
He
admired the
dexterity
with
which
their
host directed the conversation. The
five
young
men had
various
tastes
and
their
tongues had been loosened. Villona,
with
immense
respect, began
to
discover
to
the
mildly
surprised Englishman the beauties
of
the English madrigal, deploring the
loss
of
old
instruments. Riviere, not
wholly
ingenuously, undertook
to
explain
to
Jimmy the
triumph
of
the French mechanicians. The
resonant
voice
of
the Hungarian
was
about
to
prevail
in
ridicule
of
the
spurious
lutes
of
the romantic painters
when
Segouin shepherded
his
party
into
politics. Here
was
congenial
ground
for
all. Jimmy, under
generous
influences, felt the buried
zeal
of
his
father
wake
to
life
within him:
he
aroused the
torpid
Routh
at
last. The
room
grew doubly
hot
and
Segouin's task grew harder
each
moment: there
was
even
danger
of
personal
spite. The
alert
host
at
an
opportunity
lifted
his
glass
to
Humanity
and,
when
the toast had been drunk,
he
threw
open
a
window
significantly.
That
night
the
city
wore the mask
of
a
capital. The
five
young
men strolled
along
Stephen's
Green
in
a
faint
cloud
of
aromatic
smoke.
They
talked loudly
and
gaily
and
their
cloaks dangled
from
their
shoulders. The
people
made
way
for
them.
At
the
corner
of
Grafton
Street
a
short
fat
man
was
putting
two
handsome ladies
on
a
car
in
charge
of
another
fat
man. The
car
drove
off
and
the
short
fat
man
caught sight
of
the party. "Andre." "It's Farley!"
A
torrent
of
talk followed. Farley
was
an American. No
one
knew
very
well
what
the talk
was
about. Villona
and
Riviere
were
the noisiest, but all the men
were
excited.
They
got
up
on
a
car, squeezing
themselves
together
amid
much
laughter.
They
drove
by
the crowd, blended
now
into
soft
colours,
to
a
music
of
merry
bells.
They
took the
train
at
Westland
Row
and
in
a
few
seconds,
as
it
seemed
to
Jimmy,
they
were
walking
out
of
Kingstown Station. The ticket-collector saluted Jimmy;
he
was
an
old
man: "Fine night, sir!"
It
was
a
serene
summer
night; the harbour
lay
like
a
darkened
mirror
at
their
feet.
They
proceeded
towards
it
with
linked arms, singing
Cadet
Roussel
in
chorus, stamping
their
feet
at
every: "Ho! Ho! Hohe, vraiment!"
They
got
into
a
rowboat
at
the slip
and
made
out
for
the American's yacht. There
was
to
be
supper, music, cards. Villona said
with
conviction: "It
is
delightful!" There
was
a
yacht
piano
in
the cabin. Villona played
a
waltz
for
Farley
and
Riviere, Farley acting
as
cavalier
and
Riviere
as
lady.
Then
an impromptu
square
dance, the men devising
original
figures.
What
merriment! Jimmy took
his
part
with
a
will;
this
was
seeing
life,
at
least.
Then
Farley got
out
of
breath
and
cried "Stop!"
A
man
brought
in
a
light
supper,
and
the
young
men sat
down
to
it
for
form's sake.
They
drank, however:
it
was
Bohemian.
They
drank Ireland, England, France, Hungary, the United States
of
America. Jimmy
made
a
speech,
a
long
speech, Villona saying: "Hear! hear!" whenever there
was
a
pause. There
was
a
great
clapping
of
hands
when
he
sat down.
It
must
have
been
a
good
speech. Farley clapped
him
on
the
back
and
laughed loudly.
What
jovial
fellows!
What
good
company
they
were! Cards! cards! The table
was
cleared. Villona returned quietly
to
his
piano
and
played voluntaries
for
them. The
other
men played
game
after
game, flinging
themselves
boldly
into
the adventure.
They
drank the
health
of
the
Queen
of
Hearts
and
of
the
Queen
of
Diamonds. Jimmy felt obscurely the
lack
of
an audience: the
wit
was
flashing.
Play
ran
very
high
and
paper began
to
pass. Jimmy
did
not
know
exactly
who
was
winning but
he
knew
that
he
was
losing. But
it
was
his
own
fault
for
he
frequently mistook
his
cards
and
the
other
men had
to
calculate
his
I.O.U.'s
for
him.
They
were
devils
of
fellows but
he
wished
they
would stop:
it
was
getting late. Someone gave the toast
of
the
yacht
The
Belle
of
Newport
and
then
someone proposed
one
great
game
for
a
finish. The
piano
had stopped; Villona
must
have
gone
up
on
deck.
It
was
a
terrible
game.
They
stopped
just
before the
end
of
it
to
drink
for
luck. Jimmy understood
that
the
game
lay
between
Routh
and
Segouin.
What
excitement! Jimmy
was
excited too;
he
would lose,
of
course.
How
much
had
he
written away? The men
rose
to
their
feet
to
play
the
last
tricks. talking
and
gesticulating. Routh won. The
cabin
shook
with
the
young
men's cheering
and
the cards
were
bundled together.
They
began
then
to
gather
in
what
they
had won. Farley
and
Jimmy
were
the heaviest losers.
He
knew
that
he
would
regret
in
the
morning
but
at
present
he
was
glad
of
the rest,
glad
of
the dark
stupor
that
would cover
up
his
folly.
He
leaned
his
elbows
on
the table
and
rested
his
head
between
his
hands, counting the beats
of
his
temples. The
cabin
door
opened
and
he
saw
the Hungarian standing
in
a
shaft
of
grey light: "Daybreak, gentlemen!"