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 kerbstone, 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 billiards 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 Fast 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.
The Boarding House
Mrs Mooney was a butcher's daughter. She was a woman who was quite able to keep
things to herself: a determined woman. She had married her father's foreman, and
opened a butcher's shop near Spring Gardens. But as soon as his father-in-law was
dead Mr Mooney began to go to the devil. He drank, plundered the till, ran headlong
into debt. It was no use making him take the pledge: he was sure to break out again a
few days after. By fighting his wife in the presence of customers and by buying bad
meat he ruined his business. One night he went for his wife with the cleaver, and she
had to sleep in a neighbour's house.
After that they lived apart. She went to the priest and got a separation from him, with
care of the children. She would give him neither money nor food nor house-room; and
so he was obliged to enlist himself as a sheriff's man. He was a shabby stooped little
drunkard with a white face and a white moustache and white eyebrows, pencilled
above his little eyes, which were pink-veined and raw; and all day long he sat in the
bailiff's room, waiting to be put on a job. Mrs Mooney, who had taken what remained
of her money out of the butcher business and set up a boarding house in Hardwicke
Street, was a big imposing woman. Her house had a floating population made up of
tourists from Liverpool and the Isle of Man and, occasionally, artistes from the music
halls. Its resident population was made up of clerks from the city. She governed the
house cunningly and firmly, knew when to give credit, when to be stern and when to
let things pass. All the resident young men spoke of her as The Madam.
Mrs Mooney's young men paid fifteen shillings a week for board and lodgings (beer
or stout at dinner excluded). They shared in common tastes and occupations and for
this reason they were very chummy with one another. They discussed with one
another the chances of favourites and outsiders. Jack Mooney, the Madam's son, who
was clerk to a commission agent in Fleet Street, had the reputation of being a hard
case. He was fond of using soldiers' obscenities: usually he came home in the small
hours. When he met his friends he had always a good one to tell them, and he was
always sure to be on to a good thing - that is to say, a likely horse or a likely artiste.
He was also handy with the mits and sang comic songs. On Sunday nights there
would often be a reunion in Mrs Mooney's front drawing-room. The music-hall
artistes would oblige; and Sheridan played waltzes and polkas and vamped
accompaniments. Polly Mooney, the Madam's daughter, would also sing. She sang:
I'm a... naughty girl
You needn't sham:
You know I am.
Polly was a slim girl of nineteen; she had light soft hair and a small full mouth. Her
eyes, which were grey with a shade of green through them, had a habit of glancing
upwards when she spoke with anyone, which made her look like a little perverse
madonna. Mrs Mooney had first sent her daughter to be a typist in a corn-factor's
office, but as a disreputable sheriff's man used to come every other day to the office,
asking to be allowed to say a word to his daughter, she had taken her daughter home
again and set her to do housework. As Polly was very lively, the intention was to give
her the run of the young men. Besides, young men like to feel that there is a young
woman not very far away. Polly, of course, flirted with the young men, but Mrs
Mooney, who was a shrewd judge, knew that the young men were only passing the
time away: none of them meant business. Things went on so for a long time, and Mrs
Mooney began to think of sending Polly back to typewriting, when she noticed that
something was going on between Polly and one of the young men. She watched the
pair and kept her own counsel.
Polly knew that she was being watched, but still her mother's persistent silence could
not be misunderstood. There had been no open complicity between mother and
daughter, no open understanding, but though people in the house began to talk of the
affair, still Mrs Mooney did not intervene. Polly began to grow a little strange in her
manner, and the young man was evidently perturbed. At last, when she judged it to be
the right moment, Mrs Mooney intervened. She dealt with moral problems as a
cleaver deals with meat: and in this case she had made up her mind.
