Dubliners

“By God! perhaps you’re right, Joe,” said Mr O’Connor. “Anyway, I wish he’d turn up with the spondulics.” The three men fell silent. The old man began to rake more cinders together. Mr Hynes took off his hat, shook it and then turned down the collar of his coat, displaying, as he did so, 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 very cold ears 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 Henchy,” said the old man, offering him his chair. “O, don’t stir, Jack, don’t stir,” said Mr Henchy. He nodded curtly to Mr Hynes and sat down on the chair which the old man vacated. “Did you serve Aungier Street?” he asked 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 Henchy 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 Henchy, shaking his head. “I asked the little shoeboy, but he said: ‘Oh, now, Mr Henchy, when I see work going on properly I won’t forget you, you may be sure.’ Mean little tinker! ’Usha, how could he be anything else?” “What did I tell you, Mat?” said Mr Hynes. “Tricky Dicky Tierney.” “O, he’s as tricky as they make ’em,” said Mr Henchy. “He hasn’t got those little pigs’ eyes for nothing. Blast his soul! Couldn’t he pay up like a man instead of: ‘O, now, Mr Henchy, I must speak to Mr Fanning.... I’ve spent a lot of money’? Mean little shoeboy of hell! I suppose 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 Henchy. “Did you never hear that? And the men used to go in on Sunday morning before the houses were open to buy a waistcoat or a trousers—moya! But Tricky Dicky’s 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 Henchy. “I expect to find the bailiffs in the hall when I go home.” Mr Hynes 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 Henchy nor the old man said anything but, just as the door was closing, Mr O’Connor, who had been staring moodily into the fire, called out suddenly: “’Bye, Joe.” Mr Henchy waited a few moments and then nodded in the direction of the door. “Tell me,” he said across the fire, “what brings our friend in here? What does he want?” “’Usha, 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 Henchy snuffled vigorously and spat so copiously that he nearly put out the fire, which uttered a hissing protest. “To 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 round 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 Henchy admitted. “Poor old Larry Hynes! Many a good turn he did in his day! But I’m greatly afraid our friend is not nineteen carat. Damn it, 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?”