I think he’s what you call a black sheep. We haven’t many of them, thank God! but we have a few… He’s an unfortunate man of some kind…
—And how does he knock it out? asked Mr O’Connor.
—That’s another mystery.
—Is he attached to any chapel or church or institution or—
—No, said Mr Henchy, I think he’s travelling on his own account… God forgive me, he added, I thought he was the dozen of stout.
—Is there any chance of a drink itself? asked Mr O’Connor.
—I’m dry too, said the old man.
—I asked that little shoeboy three times, said Mr Henchy, would he send up a dozen of stout. I asked him again now but he was leaning on the counter in his shirt-sleeves having a deep goster with Alderman Cowley.
—Why didn’t you remind him? said Mr O’Connor.
—Well, I couldn’t go over while he was talking to Alderman Cowley. I just waited till I caught his eye, and said: About that little matter I was speaking to you about… That’ll be all right, Mr H., he said. Yerra, sure the little hop-o’-my-thumb has forgotten all about it.
—There’s some deal on in that quarter, said Mr O’Connor thoughtfully. I saw the three of them hard at it yesterday at Suffolk Street corner.
—I think I know the little game they’re at, said Mr Henchy. You must owe the City Fathers money nowadays if you want to be made Lord Mayor. Then they’ll make you Lord Mayor. By God! I’m thinking seriously of becoming a City Father myself. What do you think? Would I do for the job?
Mr O’Connor laughed.
—So far as owing money goes…
—Driving out of the Mansion House, said Mr Henchy, in all my vermin, with Jack here standing up behind me in a powdered wig—eh?
—And make me your private secretary, John.
—Yes. And I ll make Father Keon my private chaplain. We’ll have a family party.
—Faith, Mr Henchy, said the old man, you’d keep up better style than some of them. I was talking one day to old Keegan, the porter. And how do you like your new master, Pat? says I to him. You haven’t much entertaining now, says I. Entertaining! says he. He’d live on the smell of an oil-rag. And do you know what he told me? Now, I declare to God, I didn’t believe him.
—What? said Mr Henchy and Mr O’Connor.
—He told me: What do you think of a Lord Mayor of Dublin sending out for a pound of chops for his dinner? How’s that for high living? says he. Wisha! wisha, says I. A pound of chops, says he, coming into the Mansion House. Wisha! says I, what kind of people is going at all now?
At this point there was a knock at the door, and a boy put in his head.
—What is it? said the old man.
—From the Black Eagle, said the boy, walking in sideways and depositing a basket on the floor with a noise of shaken bottles.
The old man helped the boy to transfer the bottles from the basket to the table and counted the full tally. After the transfer the boy put his basket on his arm and asked: —Any bottles?
—What bottles? said the old man.
—Won’t you let us drink them first? said Mr Henchy.
—I was told to ask for the bottles.
—Come back to-morrow, said the old man.
—Here, boy! said Mr Henchy, will you run over to O’Farrell’s and ask him to lend us a corkscrew—for Mr Henchy, say. Tell him we won’t keep it a minute. Leave the basket there.
The boy went out and Mr Henchy began to rub his hands cheerfully, saying:
—Ah, well, he’s not so bad after all. He’s as good as his word, anyhow.
—There’s no tumblers, said the old man.
—O, don’t let that trouble you, Jack, said Mr Henchy. Many’s the good man before now drank out of the bottle.
—Anyway, it’s better than nothing, said Mr O’Connor.
—He’s not a bad sort, said Mr Henchy, only Fanning has such a loan of him. He means well, you know, in his own tinpot way.
The boy came back with the corkscrew. The old man opened three bottles and was handing back the corkscrew when Mr Henchy said to the boy:
—Would you like a drink, boy?
—If you please, sir, said the boy.
The old man opened another bottle grudgingly, and handed it to the boy.
—What age are you? he asked.
—Seventeen, said the boy.
As the old man said nothing further, the boy took the bottle, said: Here’s my best respects, sir to Mr Henchy, drank the contents, put the bottle back on the table and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. Then he took up the corkscrew and went out of the door sideways, muttering some form of salutation.
—That’s the way it begins, said the old man.
—The thin edge of the wedge, said Mr Henchy.
The old man distributed the three bottles which he had opened and the men drank from them simultaneously. After having drunk each placed his bottle on the mantelpiece within hand’s reach and drew in a long breath of satisfaction.
—Well, I did a good day’s work to-day, said Mr Henchy after a pause.
—That so, John?
—Yes. I got him one or two sure things in Dawson Street, Crofton and myself. Between ourselves, you know, Crofton (he’s a decent chap, of course), but he’s not worth a damn as a canvasser. He hasn’t a word to throw to a dog. He stands and looks at the people while I do the talking.
Here two men entered the room. One of them was a very fat man whose blue serge clothes seemed to be in danger of falling from his sloping figure. He had a big face which resembled a young ox’s face in expression, staring blue eyes and a grizzled moustache. The other man, who was much younger and frailer, had a thin clean-shaven face. He wore a very high double collar and a wide-brimmed bowler hat.
—Hello, Crofton! said Mr Henchy to the fat man. Talk of the devil…
—Where did the boose come from? asked the young man. Did the cow calve?
—O, of course, Lyons spots the drink first thing! said Mr O’Connor, laughing.
—Is that the way you chaps canvass, said Mr Lyons, and Crofton and I out in the cold and rain looking for votes?
—Why, blast your soul, said Mr Henchy, I’d get more votes in five minutes than you two’d get in a week.
—Open two bottles of stout, Jack, said Mr O’Connor.
—How can I? said the old man, when there’s no corkscrew?
—Wait now, wait now! said Mr Henchy, getting up quickly. Did you ever see this little trick?
He took two bottles from the table and, carrying them to the fire, put them on the hob. Then he sat down again by the fire and took another drink from his bottle. Mr Lyons sat on the edge of the table, pushed his hat towards the nape of his neck and began to swing his legs.
—Which is my bottle? he asked.
—This lad, said Mr Henchy.
Mr Crofton sat down on a box and looked fixedly at the other bottle on the hob. He was silent for two reasons. The first reason, sufficient in itself, was that he had nothing