THE grey
warm
evening
of
August
had descended
upon
the
city
and
a
mild
warm
air,
a
memory
of
summer, circulated
in
the streets. The streets, shuttered
for
the
repose
of
Sunday, swarmed
with
a
gaily
coloured crowd.
Like
illumined pearls the lamps shone
from
the summits
of
their
tall
poles
upon
the
living
texture
below
which, changing
shape
and
hue
unceasingly, sent
up
into
the
warm
grey
evening
air an unchanging unceasing murmur.
Two
young
men came
down
the
hill
of
Rutland Square.
One
of
them
was
just
bringing
a
long
monologue
to
a
close. The other,
who
walked
on
the
verge
of
the
path
and
was
at
times obliged
to
step
on
to
the road, owing
to
his
companion's rudeness, wore an amused listening face.
He
was
squat
and
ruddy.
A
yachting
cap
was
shoved
far
back
from
his
forehead
and
the
narrative
to
which
he
listened
made
constant waves
of
expression
break
forth
over
his
face
from
the corners
of
his
nose
and
eyes
and
mouth.
Little
jets
of
wheezing
laughter
followed
one
another
out
of
his
convulsed body.
His
eyes, twinkling
with
cunning enjoyment, glanced
at
every
moment
towards
his
companion's face.
Once
or
twice
he
rearranged the
light
waterproof
which
he
had slung
over
one
shoulder
in
toreador
fashion.
His
breeches,
his
white
rubber
shoes
and
his
jauntily slung waterproof expressed youth. But
his
figure
fell
into
rotundity
at
the waist,
his
hair
was
scant
and
grey
and
his
face,
when
the waves
of
expression
had passed
over
it, had
a
ravaged look.
When
he
was
quite
sure
that
the
narrative
had ended
he
laughed noiselessly
for
fully
half
a
minute.
Then
he
said: "Well!...
That
takes the biscuit!"
His
voice seemed winnowed
of
vigour;
and
to
enforce
his
words
he
added
with
humour: "That takes the solitary, unique, and,
if
I
may
so
call
it,
recherche
biscuit!"
He
became
serious
and
silent
when
he
had said this.
His
tongue
was
tired
for
he
had been talking all the
afternoon
in
a
public-house
in
Dorset Street.
Most
people
considered Lenehan
a
leech
but,
in
spite
of
this
reputation,
his
adroitness
and
eloquence
had
always
prevented
his
friends
from
forming
any
general
policy
against him.
He
had
a
brave
manner
of
coming
up
to
a
party
of
them
in
a
bar
and
of
holding
himself
nimbly
at
the borders
of
the
company
until
he
was
included
in
a
round.
He
was
a
sporting
vagrant
armed
with
a
vast
stock
of
stories, limericks
and
riddles.
He
was
insensitive
to
all kinds
of
discourtesy. No
one
knew
how
he
achieved the
stern
task
of
living, but
his
name
was
vaguely associated
with
racing tissues. "And
where
did
you
pick
her up, Corley?"
he
asked. Corley ran
his
tongue swiftly
along
his
upper
lip. "One night, man,"
he
said, "I
was
going
along
Dame
Street
and
I spotted
a
fine
tart under Waterhouse's clock
and
said good-night,
you
know.
So
we
went
for
a
walk round
by
the
canal
and
she
told
me
she
was
a
slavey
in
a
house
in
Baggot Street. I
put
my
arm
round her
and
squeezed her
a
bit
that
night.
Then
next
Sunday, man, I met her
by
appointment.
We
went
out
to
Donnybrook
and
I brought her
into
a
field
there.
She
told
me
she
used
to
go
with
a
dairyman....
It
was
fine, man. Cigarettes
every
night
she'd
bring
me
and
paying the
tram
out
and
back.
And
one
night
she
brought
me
two
bloody
fine
cigars—O, the
real
cheese,
you
know,
that
the
old
fellow
used
to
smoke.... I
was
afraid, man, she'd
get
in
the
family
way. But she's
up
to
the dodge." "Maybe
she
thinks you'll
marry
her," said Lenehan. "I told her I
was
out
of
a
job," said Corley. "I told her I
was
in
Pim's.
She
doesn't
know
my name. I
was
too
hairy
to
tell
her that. But
she
thinks I'm
a
bit
of
class,
you
know." Lenehan laughed again, noiselessly. "Of all the
good
ones
ever
I heard,"
he
said, "that emphatically takes the biscuit." Corley's
stride
acknowledged the compliment. The
swing
of
his
burly
body
made
his
friend
execute
a
few
light
skips
from
the
path
to
the roadway
and
back
again. Corley
was
the
son
of
an
inspector
of
police
and
he
had inherited
his
father's
frame
and
gait.
He
walked
with
his
hands
by
his
sides, holding
himself
erect
and
swaying
his
head
from
side
to
side.
His
head
was
large,
globular
and
oily;
it
sweated
in
all weathers;
and
his
large
round hat,
set
upon
it
sideways, looked
like
a
bulb
which
had grown
out
of
another.
He
always
stared straight before
him
as
if
he
were
on
parade
and,
when
he
wished
to
gaze
after
someone
in
the street,
it
was
necessary
for
him
to
move
his
body
from
the hips.
At
present
he
was
about
town. Whenever
any
job
was
vacant
a
friend
was
always
ready
to
give
him
the
hard
word.
He
was
often
to
be
seen walking
with
policemen
in
plain
clothes, talking earnestly.
He
knew the
inner
side
of
all affairs
and
was
fond
of
delivering
final
judgments.
He
spoke
without listening
to
the
speech
of
his
companions.
His
conversation
was
mainly
about
himself:
what
he
had said
to
such
a
person
and
what
such
a
person
had said
to
him
and
what
he
had said
to
settle
the matter.
When
he
reported
these
dialogues
he
aspirated the first
letter
of
his
name
after
the
manner
of
Florentines. Lenehan offered
his
friend
a
cigarette.
As
the
two
young
men walked
on
through the crowd Corley occasionally turned
to
smile
at
some
of
the passing girls but Lenehan's gaze
was
fixed
on
the
large
faint moon circled
with
a
double
halo.
He
watched
earnestly
the passing
of
the grey
web
of
twilight
across
its face.
At
length
he
said: "Well...
tell
me, Corley, I
suppose
you'll
be
able
to
pull
it
off
all right, eh?" Corley closed
one
eye
expressively
as
an answer. "Is
she
game
for
that?" asked Lenehan dubiously. "You
can
never
know
women." "She's all right," said Corley. "I
know
the
way
to
get
around
her, man. She's
a
bit
gone
on
me." "You're
what
I
call
a
gay
Lothario," said Lenehan. "And the
proper
kind
of
a
Lothario, too!"
A
shade
of
mockery
relieved the servility
of
his
manner.
To
save
himself
he
had the
habit
of
leaving
his
flattery
open
to
the
interpretation
of
raillery. But Corley had not
a
subtle
mind. "There's
nothing
to
touch
a
good
slavey,"
he
affirmed. "Take my tip
for
it." "By
one
who
has tried
them
all," said Lenehan. "First I used
to
go
with
girls,
you
know," said Corley, unbosoming; "girls
off
the
South
Circular. I used
to
take
them
out, man,
on
the
tram
somewhere
and
pay
the
tram
or
take
them
to
a
band
or
a
play
at
the
theatre
or
buy
them
chocolate
and
sweets
or
something
that
way. I used
to
spend
money
on
them
right
enough,"
he
added,
in
a
convincing tone,
as
if
he
was
conscious
of
being disbelieved. But Lenehan
could
well
believe
it;
he
nodded gravely. "I
know
that
game,"
he
said, "and it's
a
mug's game." "And
damn
the
thing
I
ever
got
out
of
it," said Corley. "Ditto here," said Lenehan. "Only
off
of
one
of
them," said Corley.
He
moistened
his
upper
lip
by
running
his
tongue
along
it. The
recollection
brightened
his
eyes.
He
too
gazed
at
the
pale
disc
of
the moon,
now
nearly veiled,
and
seemed
to
meditate. "She was...
a
bit
of
all right,"
he
said regretfully.
He
was
silent
again.
Then
he
added: "She's
on
the turf now. I
saw
her driving
down
Earl
Street
one
night
with
two
fellows
with
her
on
a
car." "I
suppose
that's your doing," said Lenehan. "There
was
others
at
her before me," said Corley philosophically.
This
time
Lenehan
was
inclined
to
disbelieve.
He
shook
his
head
to
and
fro
and
smiled. "You
know
you
can't
kid
me, Corley,"
he
said. "Honest
to
God!" said Corley. "Didn't
she
tell
me
herself?" Lenehan
made
a
tragic
gesture. "Base betrayer!"
he
said.
As
they
passed
along
the railings
of
Trinity
College, Lenehan skipped
out
into
the
road
and
peered
up
at
the clock. "Twenty after,"
he
said. "Time enough," said Corley. "She'll
be
there all right. I
always
let
her
wait
a
bit." Lenehan laughed quietly. "Ecod! Corley,
you
know
how
to
take
them,"
he
said. "I'm
up
to
all
their
little
tricks," Corley confessed. "But
tell
me," said Lenehan again, "are
you
sure
you
can
bring
it
off
all right?
You
know
it's
a
ticklish job. They're
damn
close
on
that
point. Eh?... What?"
His
bright, small eyes searched
his
companion's face
for
reassurance. Corley swung
his
head
to
and
fro
as
if
to
toss
aside
an
insistent
insect,
and
his
brows gathered. "I'll
pull
it
off,"
he
said. "Leave
it
to
me, can't you?" Lenehan said no more.
He
did
not
wish
to
ruffle
his
friend's temper,
to
be
sent
to
the
devil
and
told
that
his
advice
was
not wanted.
A
little
tact
was
necessary. But Corley's
brow
was
soon
smooth
again.
His
thoughts
were
running
another
way. "She's
a
fine
decent
tart,"
he
said,
with
appreciation; "that's
what
she
is."
They
walked
along
Nassau
Street
and
then
turned
into
Kildare Street. Not
far
from
the
porch
of
the club
a
harpist stood
in
the roadway, playing
to
a
little
ring
of
listeners.
He
plucked
at
the wires heedlessly, glancing
quickly
from
time
to
time
at
the face
of
each
new-comer
and
from
time
to
time, wearily also,
at
the sky.
His
harp, too, heedless
that
her coverings had fallen
about
her knees, seemed
weary
alike
of
the eyes
of
strangers
and
of
her master's hands.
One
hand
played
in
the
bass
the
melody
of
Silent, O Moyle,
while
the
other
hand
careered
in
the
treble
after
each
group
of
notes. The notes
of
the air sounded
deep
and
full. The
two
young
men walked
up
the
street
without speaking, the mournful
music
following
them.
When
they
reached Stephen's
Green
they
crossed the road. Here the
noise
of
trams, the lights
and
the crowd released
them
from
their
silence. "There
she
is!" said Corley.
At
the
corner
of
Hume
Street
a
young
woman
was
standing.
She
wore
a
blue dress
and
a
white
sailor
hat.
She
stood
on
the curbstone, swinging
a
sunshade
in
one
hand. Lenehan grew lively. "Let's
have
a
look
at
her, Corley,"
he
said. Corley glanced sideways
at
his
friend
and
an unpleasant grin appeared
on
his
face. "Are
you
trying
to
get
inside
me?"
he
asked. "Damn it!" said Lenehan boldly, "I don't
want
an introduction. All I
want
is
to
have
a
look
at
her. I'm not going
to
eat
her." "O...
A
look
at
her?" said Corley,
more
amiably. "Well... I'll
tell
you
what. I'll
go
over
and
talk
to
her
and
you
can
pass by." "Right!" said Lenehan. Corley had
already
thrown
one
leg
over
the chains
when
Lenehan called out: "And after?
Where
will
we
meet?" "Half ten," answered Corley, bringing
over
his
other
leg. "Where?" "Corner
of
Merrion Street. We'll
be
coming back." "Work
it
all
right
now," said Lenehan
in
farewell. Corley
did
not answer.
He
sauntered
across
the
road
swaying
his
head
from
side
to
side.
His
bulk,
his
easy
pace,
and
the
solid
sound
of
his
boots had
something
of
the
conqueror
in
them.
He
approached the
young
woman
and, without saluting, began
at
once
to
converse
with
her.
She
swung her
umbrella
more
quickly
and
executed half turns
on
her heels.
Once
or
twice
when
he
spoke
to
her
at
close quarters
she
laughed
and
bent her head. Lenehan observed
them
for
a
few
minutes.
Then
he
walked rapidly
along
beside
the chains
at
some
distance
and
crossed the
road
obliquely.
As
he
approached Hume
Street
corner
he
found the air
heavily
scented
and
his
eyes
made
a
swift
anxious
scrutiny
of
the
young
woman's appearance.
She
had her Sunday finery on. Her blue
serge
skirt
was
held
at
the
waist
by
a
belt
of
black
leather. The
great
silver
buckle
of
her belt seemed
to
depress
the centre
of
her body, catching the
light
stuff
of
her
white
blouse
like
a
clip.
She
wore
a
short
black
jacket
with
mother-of-pearl buttons
and
a
ragged
black
boa. The ends
of
her
tulle
collarette had been
carefully
disordered
and
a
big
bunch
of
red
flowers
was
pinned
in
her bosom, stems upwards. Lenehan's eyes noted approvingly her stout
short
muscular
body. Frank
rude
health
glowed
in
her face,
on
her
fat
red
cheeks
and
in
her unabashed blue eyes. Her features
were
blunt.
She
had
broad
nostrils,
a
straggling
mouth
which
lay
open
in
a
contented leer,
and
two
projecting
front
teeth.
As
he
passed Lenehan took
off
his
cap
and,
after
about
ten seconds, Corley returned
a
salute
to
the air.
This
he
did
by
raising
his
hand
vaguely
and
pensively changing the
angle
of
position
of
his
hat. Lenehan walked
as
far
as
the Shelbourne
Hotel
where
he
halted
and
waited.
After
waiting
for
a
little
time
he
saw
them
coming
towards
him
and,
when
they
turned
to
the right,
he
followed them, stepping
lightly
in
his
white
shoes,
down
one
side
of
Merrion Square.
As
he
walked
on
slowly, timing
his
pace
to
theirs,
he
watched Corley's
head
which
turned
at
every
moment
towards
the
young
woman's face
like
a
big
ball
revolving
on
a
pivot.
He
kept the pair
in
view
until
he
had seen
them
climbing the stairs
of
the Donnybrook tram;
then
he
turned
about
and
went
back
the
way
he
had come.
Now
that
he
was
alone
his
face looked older.
His
gaiety
seemed
to
forsake
him
and,
as
he
came
by
the railings
of
the Duke's Lawn,
he
allowed
his
hand
to
run
along
them. The air
which
the harpist had played began
to
control
his
movements.
His
softly padded feet played the
melody
while
his
fingers swept
a
scale
of
variations
idly
along
the railings
after
each
group
of
notes.
He
walked listlessly round Stephen's
Green
and
then
down
Grafton Street. Though
his
eyes took
note
of
many
elements
of
the crowd through
which
he
passed
they
did
so
morosely.
He
found
trivial
all
that
was
meant
to
charm
him
and
did
not
answer
the glances
which
invited
him
to
be
bold.
He
knew
that
he
would
have
to
speak
a
great
deal,
to
invent
and
to
amuse,
and
his
brain
and
throat
were
too
dry
for
such
a
task. The
problem
of
how
he
could
pass the hours
till
he
met Corley
again
troubled
him
a
little.
He
could
think
of
no
way
of
passing
them
but
to
keep
on
walking.
He
turned
to
the
left
when
he
came
to
the
corner
of
Rutland
Square
and
felt
more
at
ease
in
the dark
quiet
street, the
sombre
look
of
which
suited
his
mood.
He
paused
at
last
before the
window
of
a
poor-looking shop
over
which
the words
Refreshment
Bar
were
printed
in
white
letters.
On
the glass
of
the
window
were
two
flying
inscriptions:
Ginger
Beer
and
Ginger
Ale.
A
cut
ham
was
exposed
on
a
great
blue dish
while
near
it
on
a
plate
lay
a
segment
of
very
light
plum-pudding.
He
eyed
this
food
earnestly
for
some
time
and
then,
after
glancing warily
up
and
down
the street, went
into
the shop quickly.
He
was
hungry for,
except
some
biscuits
which
he
had asked
two
grudging curates
to
bring
him,
he
had eaten
nothing
since
breakfast-time.
He
sat
down
at
an uncovered
wooden
table
opposite
two
work-girls
and
a
mechanic.
A
slatternly
girl
waited
on
him. "How
much
is
a
plate
of
peas?"
he
asked. "Three halfpence, sir," said the girl. "Bring
me
a
plate
of
peas,"
he
said, "and
a
bottle
of
ginger
beer."
He
spoke
roughly
in
order
to
belie
his
air
of
gentility
for
his
entry
had been followed
by
a
pause
of
talk.
His
face
was
heated.
To
appear
natural
he
pushed
his
cap
back
on
his
head
and
planted
his
elbows
on
the table. The
mechanic
and
the
two
work-girls examined
him
point
by
point
before resuming
their
conversation
in
a
subdued voice. The
girl
brought
him
a
plate
of
grocer's
hot
peas, seasoned
with
pepper
and
vinegar,
a
fork
and
his
ginger
beer.
He
ate
his
food
greedily
and
found
it
so
good
that
he
made
a
note
of
the shop mentally.
When
he
had eaten all the peas
he
sipped
his
ginger
beer
and
sat
for
some
time
thinking
of
Corley's adventure.
In
his
imagination
he
beheld the pair
of
lovers walking
along
some
dark road;
he
heard Corley's voice
in
deep
energetic
gallantries
and
saw
again
the leer
of
the
young
woman's mouth.
This
vision
made
him
feel
keenly
his
own
poverty
of
purse
and
spirit.
He
was
tired
of
knocking about,
of
pulling the
devil
by
the tail,
of
shifts
and
intrigues.
He
would
be
thirty-one
in
November. Would
he
never
get
a
good
job? Would
he
never
have
a
home
of
his
own?
He
thought
how
pleasant
it
would
be
to
have
a
warm
fire
to
sit
by
and
a
good
dinner
to
sit
down
to.
He
had walked the streets
long
enough
with
friends
and
with
girls.
He
knew
what
those
friends
were
worth:
he
knew the girls too. Experience had embittered
his
heart
against the world. But all
hope
had not
left
him.
He
felt
better
after
having eaten
than
he
had felt before, less
weary
of
his
life, less vanquished
in
spirit.
He
might
yet
be
able
to
settle
down
in
some
snug
corner
and
live
happily
if
he
could
only
come
across
some
good
simple-minded
girl
with
a
little
of
the ready.
He
paid twopence
halfpenny
to
the slatternly
girl
and
went
out
of
the shop
to
begin
his
wandering again.
He
went
into
Capel
Street
and
walked
along
towards
the
City
Hall.
Then
he
turned
into
Dame
Street.
At
the
corner
of
George's
Street
he
met
two
friends
of
his
and
stopped
to
converse
with
them.
He
was
glad
that
he
could
rest
from
all
his
walking.
His
friends asked
him
had
he
seen Corley
and
what
was
the latest.
He
replied
that
he
had spent the
day
with
Corley.
His
friends talked
very
little.
They
looked vacantly
after
some
figures
in
the crowd
and
sometimes
made
a
critical
remark.
One
said
that
he
had seen Mac an
hour
before
in
Westmoreland Street.
At
this
Lenehan said
that
he
had been
with
Mac the
night
before
in
Egan's. The
young
man
who
had seen Mac
in
Westmoreland
Street
asked
was
it
true
that
Mac had won
a
bit
over
a
billiard match. Lenehan
did
not know:
he
said
that
Holohan had stood
them
drinks
in
Egan's.
He
left
his
friends
at
a
quarter
to
ten
and
went
up
George's Street.
He
turned
to
the
left
at
the
City
Markets
and
walked
on
into
Grafton Street. The crowd
of
girls
and
young
men had thinned
and
on
his
way
up
the
street
he
heard
many
groups
and
couples bidding
one
another
good-night.
He
went
as
far
as
the clock
of
the
College
of
Surgeons:
it
was
on
the
stroke
of
ten.
He
set
off
briskly
along
the
northern
side
of
the
Green
hurrying
for
fear
Corley should
return
too
soon.
When
he
reached the
corner
of
Merrion
Street
he
took
his
stand
in
the
shadow
of
a
lamp
and
brought
out
one
of
the cigarettes
which
he
had reserved
and
lit
it.
He
leaned against the lamp-post
and
kept
his
gaze fixed
on
the
part
from
which
he
expected
to
see
Corley
and
the
young
woman
return.
His
mind
became
active
again.
He
wondered had Corley managed
it
successfully.
He
wondered
if
he
had asked her
yet
or
if
he
would
leave
it
to
the last.
He
suffered all the pangs
and
thrills
of
his
friend's
situation
as
well
as
those
of
his
own. But the
memory
of
Corley's
slowly
revolving
head
calmed
him
somewhat:
he
was
sure
Corley would
pull
it
off
all right. All
at
once
the
idea
struck
him
that
perhaps
Corley had seen her
home
by
another
way
and
given
him
the slip.
His
eyes searched the street: there
was
no
sign
of
them.
Yet
it
was
surely half-an-hour
since
he
had seen the clock
of
the
College
of
Surgeons. Would Corley
do
a
thing
like
that?
He
lit
his
last
cigarette
and
began
to
smoke
it
nervously.
He
strained
his
eyes
as
each
tram
stopped
at
the
far
corner
of
the square.
They
must
have
gone
home
by
another
way. The paper
of
his
cigarette
broke
and
he
flung
it
into
the
road
with
a
curse. Suddenly
he
saw
them
coming
towards
him.
He
started
with
delight
and, keeping close
to
his
lamp-post, tried
to
read the
result
in
their
walk.
They
were
walking quickly, the
young
woman
taking
quick
short
steps,
while
Corley kept
beside
her
with
his
long
stride.
They
did
not
seem
to
be
speaking. An
intimation
of
the
result
pricked
him
like
the
point
of
a
sharp instrument.
He
knew Corley would fail;
he
knew
it
was
no go.
They
turned
down
Baggot
Street
and
he
followed
them
at
once, taking the
other
footpath.
When
they
stopped
he
stopped too.
They
talked
for
a
few
moments
and
then
the
young
woman
went
down
the steps
into
the
area
of
a
house. Corley remained standing
at
the
edge
of
the path,
a
little
distance
from
the
front
steps.
Some
minutes
passed.
Then
the hall-door
was
opened
slowly
and
cautiously.
A
woman
came running
down
the
front
steps
and
coughed. Corley turned
and
went
towards
her.
His
broad
figure
hid hers
from
view
for
a
few
seconds
and
then
she
reappeared running
up
the steps. The
door
closed
on
her
and
Corley began
to
walk swiftly
towards
Stephen's Green. Lenehan hurried
on
in
the
same
direction.
Some
drops
of
light
rain
fell.
He
took
them
as
a
warning
and, glancing
back
towards
the
house
which
the
young
woman
had entered
to
see
that
he
was
not observed,
he
ran eagerly
across
the road.
Anxiety
and
his
swift
run
made
him
pant.
He
called out: "Hallo, Corley!" Corley turned
his
head
to
see
who
had called him,
and
then
continued walking
as
before. Lenehan ran
after
him, settling the waterproof
on
his
shoulders
with
one
hand. "Hallo, Corley!"
he
cried again.
He
came
level
with
his
friend
and
looked
keenly
in
his
face.
He
could
see
nothing
there. "Well?"
he
said. "Did
it
come
off?"
They
had reached the
corner
of
Ely Place.
Still
without answering, Corley swerved
to
the
left
and
went
up
the
side
street.
His
features
were
composed
in
stern
calm. Lenehan kept
up
with
his
friend, breathing uneasily.
He
was
baffled
and
a
note
of
menace
pierced through
his
voice. "Can't
you
tell
us?"
he
said. "Did
you
try
her?" Corley halted
at
the first
lamp
and
stared grimly before him.
Then
with
a
grave
gesture
he
extended
a
hand
towards
the
light
and, smiling, opened
it
slowly
to
the gaze
of
his
disciple.
A
small
gold
coin
shone
in
the palm.