Dubliners

The gentlemen began to talk of the accident. Mr Cu

`Well, I'm not seventy,' said the invalid.

`God forbid,' said Mr Cu

`It doesn't pain you now?' asked Mr M'Coy.

Mr M'Coy 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 Sub-Sheriff, and he had recently become secretary to the City Coroner. His new office made him professionally interested in Mr Kernan's case.

`Pain? Not much,' answered Mr Kernan. `But it's so sickening. I feel as if I wanted to retch off.'

`That's the booze,' said Mr Cu

`No,' said Mr Kernan. `I think I caught cold on the car. There's something keeps coming into my throat, phlegm or—'

`Mucus,' said Mr M'Coy.

`It keeps coming like from down in my throat; sickening thing.'

`Yes, yes,' said Mr M'Coy, `that's the thorax.'

He looked at Mr Cu

`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 Cu

`A chap. I don't know his name. Damn it now, what's his name? Little chap with sandy hair... '

`And who else?'

`Harford.'

`Hm,' said Mr Cu

When Mr Cu

`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 there had been some mistake, that Mr Harford and he had missed each other. His friends, who knew quite well Mr Harford's ma

`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—'

`O, 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. Decent young fellow, he seemed. How did it happen at all?'

`It happened that you were peloothered, Tom,' said Mr Cu

`True bill,' said Mr Kernan, equally gravely.

`I suppose you squared the constable, Jack,' said Mr M'Coy.

Mr Power did not relish the use of his Christian name. He was not strait-laced, but he could not forget that Mr M'Coy had recently made a crusade in search of valises and portmanteaux to enable Mrs M'Coy to fulfil 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 honourable 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 bostooms... and they're nothing else.'

Mr Cu

`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 M'Coy, who wanted to enter the conversation by any door, pretended that he had never heard the story; Mr Cu

`It is supposed — they say, you know — to take place in the depot where they get these thundering big country fellows, omadhauns, 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 di

Everyone laughed again: but Mr Kernan was somewhat indignant still. He talked of writing a letter to the papers.

`These yahoos coming up here,' he said, `think they can boss the people. I needn't tell you, Martin, what kind of men they are.'

Mr Cu

`It's like everything else in this world,' he said. `You get some bad ones and you get some good ones.'

`O yes, you get some good ones, I admit,' said Mr Kernan, satisfied.

`It's better to have nothing to say to them,' said Mr M'Coy. `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 Cu

`And have you nothing for me, duckie?'

`O, 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 Cu

`On Thursday night, you said, Jack?'

`Thursday, yes,' said Mr Power.

`Righto!' said Mr Cu

`We can meet in M'Auley's,' said Mr M'Coy. `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 M'Coy.

`Righto!' said Mr Cu

`Half-seven at M'Auley's be it!'

There was a short silence. Mr Kernan waited to see whether he would be taken into his friends' confidence. Then he asked:

`What's in the wind?'

`O, it's nothing,' said Mr Cu

`The opera, is it?' said Mr Kernan.