Dubliners
knew nothing about them, that he had made a faithful copy. The tirade
continued: it was so bitter and violent that the man could hardly
restrain his fist from descending upon the head of the manikin before
him:
“I know nothing about any other two letters,” he said stupidly.
“_You—know—nothing_. Of course you know nothing,” said Mr Alleyne.
“Tell me,” he added, glancing first for approval to the lady beside
him, “do you take me for a fool? Do you think me an utter fool?”
The man glanced from the lady’s face to the little egg-shaped head and
back again; and, almost before he was aware of it, his tongue had found
a felicitous moment:
“I don’t think, sir,” he said, “that that’s a fair question to put to
me.”
There was a pause in the very breathing of the clerks. Everyone was
astounded (the author of the witticism no less than his neighbours) and
Miss Delacour, who was a stout amiable person, began to smile broadly.
Mr Alleyne flushed to the hue of a wild rose and his mouth twitched
with a dwarf’s passion. He shook his fist in the man’s face till it
seemed to vibrate like the knob of some electric machine:
“You impertinent ruffian! You impertinent ruffian! I’ll make short work
of you! Wait till you see! You’ll apologise to me for your impertinence
or you’ll quit the office instanter! You’ll quit this, I’m telling you,
or you’ll apologise to me!”
He stood in a doorway opposite the office watching to see if the
cashier would come out alone. All the clerks passed out and finally the
cashier came out with the chief clerk. It was no use trying to say a
word to him when he was with the chief clerk. The man felt that his
position was bad enough. He had been obliged to offer an abject apology
to Mr Alleyne for his impertinence but he knew what a hornet’s nest the
office would be for him. He could remember the way in which Mr Alleyne
had hounded little Peake out of the office in order to make room for
his own nephew. He felt savage and thirsty and revengeful, annoyed with
himself and with everyone else. Mr Alleyne would never give him an
hour’s rest; his life would be a hell to him. He had made a proper fool
of himself this time. Could he not keep his tongue in his cheek? But
they had never pulled together from the first, he and Mr Alleyne, ever
since the day Mr Alleyne had overheard him mimicking his North of
Ireland accent to amuse Higgins and Miss Parker: that had been the
beginning of it. He might have tried Higgins for the money, but sure
Higgins never had anything for himself. A man with two establishments
to keep up, of course he couldn’t....
He felt his great body again aching for the comfort of the
public-house. The fog had begun to chill him and he wondered could he
touch Pat in O’Neill’s. He could not touch him for more than a bob—and
a bob was no use. Yet he must get money somewhere or other: he had
spent his last penny for the g.p. and soon it would be too late for
getting money anywhere. Suddenly, as he was fingering his watch-chain,
he thought of Terry Kelly’s pawn-office in Fleet Street. That was the
dart! Why didn’t he think of it sooner?
He went through the narrow alley of Temple Bar quickly, muttering to
himself that they could all go to hell because he was going to have a
good night of it. The clerk in Terry Kelly’s said _A crown!_ but the
consignor held out for six shillings; and in the end the six shillings
was allowed him literally. He came out of the pawn-office joyfully,
making a little cylinder, of the coins between his thumb and fingers.
In Westmoreland Street the footpaths were crowded with young men and
women returning from business and ragged urchins ran here and there
yelling out the names of the evening editions. The man passed through
the crowd, looking on the spectacle generally with proud satisfaction
and staring masterfully at the office-girls. His head was full of the
noises of tram-gongs and swishing trolleys and his nose already sniffed
the curling fumes of punch. As he walked on he preconsidered the terms
in which he would narrate the incident to the boys:
“So, I just looked at him—coolly, you know, and looked at her. Then I
looked back at him again—taking my time, you know. ‘I don’t think that
that’s a fair question to put to me,’ says I.”
Nosey Flynn was sitting up in his usual corner of Davy Byrne’s and,
when he heard the story, he stood Farrington a half-one, saying it was
as smart a thing as ever he heard. Farrington stood a drink in his
turn. After a while O’Halloran and Paddy Leonard came in and the story
was repeated to them. O’Halloran stood tailors of malt, hot, all round
and told the story of the retort he had made to the chief clerk when he
was in Callan’s of Fownes’s Street; but, as the retort was after the
manner of the liberal shepherds in the eclogues, he had to admit that
it was not as clever as Farrington’s retort. At this Farrington told
the boys to polish off that and have another.
Just as they were naming their poisons who should come in but Higgins!
Of course he had to join in with the others. The men asked him to give
his version of it, and he did so with great vivacity for the sight of
five small hot whiskies was very exhilarating. Everyone roared laughing
when he showed the way in which Mr Alleyne shook his fist in
Farrington’s face. Then he imitated Farrington, saying, _“And here was
my nabs, as cool as you please,”_ while Farrington looked at the
company out of his heavy dirty eyes, smiling and at times drawing forth
stray drops of liquor from his moustache with the aid of his lower lip.
When that round was over there was a pause. O’Halloran had money but
neither of the other two seemed to have any; so the whole party left
the shop somewhat regretfully. At the corner of Duke Street Higgins and
Nosey Flynn bevelled off to the left while the other three turned back
towards the city. Rain was drizzling down on the cold streets and, when
they reached the Ballast Office, Farrington suggested the Scotch House.
The bar was full of men and loud with the noise of tongues and glasses.
The three men pushed past the whining match-sellers at the door and
formed a little party at the corner of the counter. They began to
exchange stories. Leonard introduced them to a young fellow named
Weathers who was performing at the Tivoli as an acrobat and knockabout
_artiste_. Farrington stood a drink all round. Weathers said he would
take a small Irish and Apollinaris. Farrington, who had definite
notions of what was what, asked the boys would they have an Apollinaris
too; but the boys told Tim to make theirs hot. The talk became
theatrical. O’Halloran stood a round and then Farrington stood another
round, Weathers protesting that the hospitality was too Irish. He
promised to get them in behind the scenes and introduce them to some
nice girls. O’Halloran said that he and Leonard would go, but that
Farrington wouldn’t go because he was a married man; and Farrington’s
heavy dirty eyes leered at the company in token that he understood he
was being chaffed. Weathers made them all have just one little tincture
at his expense and promised to meet them later on at Mulligan’s in
Poolbeg Street.
When the Scotch House closed they went round to Mulligan’s. They went
into the parlour at the back and O’Halloran ordered small hot specials
all round. They were all beginning to feel mellow. Farrington was just
standing another round when Weathers came back. Much to Farrington’s
relief he drank a glass of bitter this time. Funds were getting low but
they had enough to keep them going. Presently two young women with big
hats and a young man in a check suit came in and sat at a table close
by. Weathers saluted them and told the company that they were out of
the Tivoli. Farrington’s eyes wandered at every moment in the direction
of one of the young women. There was something striking in her
appearance. An immense scarf of peacock-blue muslin was wound round her
hat and knotted in a great bow under her chin; and she wore bright
yellow gloves, reaching to the elbow. Farrington gazed admiringly at
the plump arm which she moved very often and with much grace; and when,
after a little time, she answered his gaze he admired still more her
large dark brown eyes. The oblique staring expression in them
fascinated him. She glanced at him once or twice and, when the party
was leaving the room, she brushed against his chair and said _“O,
pardon!”_ in a London accent. He watched her leave the room in the hope
that she would look back at him, but he was disappointed. He cursed his
want of money and cursed all the rounds he had stood, particularly all
the whiskies and Apollinaris which he had stood to Weathers. If there
was one thing that he hated it was a sponge. He was so angry that he
lost count of the conversation of his friends.
When Paddy Leonard called him he found that they were talking about
feats of strength. Weathers was showing his biceps muscle to the
company and boasting so much that the other two had called on
Farrington to uphold the national honour. Farrington pulled up his
sleeve accordingly and showed his biceps muscle to the company. The two
arms were examined and compared and finally it was agreed to have a
trial of strength. The table was cleared and the two men rested their
elbows on it, clasping hands. When Paddy Leonard said _“Go!”_ each was
to try to bring down the other’s hand on to the table. Farrington
looked very serious and determined.
The trial began. After about thirty seconds Weathers brought his
opponent’s hand slowly down on to the table. Farrington’s dark
wine-coloured face flushed darker still with anger and humiliation at
having been defeated by such a stripling.
“You’re not to put the weight of your body behind it. Play fair,” he
said.
“Who’s not playing fair?” said the other.
“Come on again. The two best out of three.”
The trial began again. The veins stood out on Farrington’s forehead,
and the pallor of Weathers’ complexion changed to peony. Their hands
and arms trembled under the stress. After a long struggle Weathers
again brought his opponent’s hand slowly on to the table. There was a
murmur of applause from the spectators. The curate, who was standing
beside the table, nodded his red head towards the victor and said with
stupid familiarity:
“Ah! that’s the knack!”
“What the hell do you know about it?” said Farrington fiercely, turning
on the man. “What do you put in your gab for?”
“Sh, sh!” said O’Halloran, observing the violent expression of
Farrington’s face. “Pony up, boys. We’ll have just one little smahan
more and then we’ll be off.”
A very sullen-faced man stood at the corner of O’Connell Bridge waiting
for the little Sandymount tram to take him home. He was full of
smouldering anger and revengefulness. He felt humiliated and
discontented; he did not even feel drunk; and he had only twopence in
his pocket. He cursed everything. He had done for himself in the
office, pawned his watch, spent all his money; and he had not even got
drunk. He began to feel thirsty again and he longed to be back again in
the hot reeking public-house. He had lost his reputation as a strong
man, having been defeated twice by a mere boy. His heart swelled with
fury and, when he thought of the woman in the big hat who had brushed
against him and said _Pardon!_ his fury nearly choked him.
His tram let him down at Shelbourne Road and he steered his great body
along in the shadow of the wall of the barracks. He loathed returning
to his home. When he went in by the side-door he found the kitchen
empty and the kitchen fire nearly out. He bawled upstairs:
“Ada! Ada!”
His wife was a little sharp-faced woman who bullied her husband when he
was sober and was bullied by him when he was drunk. They had five