He became serious and silent when he had said this. His tongue was tired, for he had
been talking all the afternoon in a public-house in Dorset Street. Most people
considered Lenehan a leech, but in spite of this reputation, his adroitness and
eloquence had always prevented his friends from forming any general policy against
him. He had a brave manner of coming up to a party of them in a bar and of holding
himself nimbly at the borders of the company until he was included in a round. He
was a sporting vagrant armed with a vast stock of stories, limericks, and riddles. He
was insensitive to all kinds of discourtesy. No one knew how he achieved the stern
task of living, but his name was vaguely associated with racing tissues.
`And where did you pick her up, Corley?' he asked.
Corley ran his tongue swiftly along his upper lip.
`One night, man,' he said, `I was going along Dame Street and I spotted a fine tart
under Waterhouse's clock, and said good night, you know. So we went for a walk
round by the canal, and she told me she was a slavey in a house in Baggot Street. I put
my arm round her and squeezed her a bit that night. Then next Sunday, man, I met her
by appointment. We went out to Donnybrook and I brought her into a field there. She
told me she used to go with a dairyman... It was fine, man. Cigarettes every night
she'd bring me, and paying the tram out and back. And one night she brought me two
bloody fine cigars - O, the real cheese, you known that the old fellow used to smoke...
I was afraid, man, she'd get in the family way. But she's up to the dodge.'
`Maybe she thinks you'll marry her,' said Lenehan.
`I told her I was out of a job,' said Corley. `I told her I was in Pim's. She doesn't know
my name. I was too hairy to tell her that. But she thinks I'm a bit of class, you know.'
Lenehan laughed again, noiselessly.
`Of all the good ones ever I heard,' he said, `that emphatically takes the biscuit.'
Corley's stride acknowledged the compliment. The swing of his burly body made his
friend execute a few light skips from the path to the roadway and back again. Corley
was the son of an inspector of police, and he had inherited his father's frame and gait.'
He walked with his hands by his sides, holding himself erect and swaying his head
from side to side. His head was large, globular, and oily; it sweated in all weathers;
and his large round hat, set upon it sideways, looked like a bulb which had grown out
of another. He always stared straight before him as if he were on parade, and when he
wished to gaze after someone in the street, it was necessary for him to move his body
from the hips. At present he was about town. Whenever any job was vacant a friend
was always ready to give him the hard word. He was often to be seen walking with
policemen in plain clothes, talking earnestly. He knew the inner side of all affairs and
was fond of delivering final judgements. He spoke without listening to the speech of
his companions. His conversation was mainly about himself: what he had said to such
a person and what such a person had said to him, and what he had said to settle the
matter. When he reported these dialogues he aspirated the first letter of his name after
the manner of Florentines.
Lenehan offered his friend a cigarette. As the two young men walked on through the
crowd Corley occasionally turned to smile at some of the passing girls, but Lenehan's
gaze was fixed on the large faint moon circled with a double halo. He watched
earnestly the passing of the grey web of twilight across its face. At length he said:
`Well... tell me, Corley, I suppose you'll be able to pull it off all right, eh?'
Corley closed one eye expressively as an answer.
`Is she game for that?' asked Lenehan dubiously. `You can never know women.'
`She's all right,' said Corley. `I know the way to get around her, man. She's a bit gone
on me.'
`You're what I call a gay Lothario,' said Lenehan. `And the proper kind of a Lothario,
too!'
A shade of mockery relieved the servility of his manner. To save himself he had the
habit of leaving his flattery open to the interpretation of raillery. But Corley had not a
subtle mind.
`There's nothing to touch a good slavey,' he affirmed. `Take my tip for it.'
`By one who has tried them all,' said Lenehan.
`First I used to go with girls, you know,' said Corley, unbosoming; `girls off the South
Circular. I used to take them out, man, on the tram somewhere and pay the tram, or
take them to a band or a play at the theatre, or buy them chocolate and sweets or
something that way. I used to spend money on them right enough,' he added, in a
convincing tone, as if he was conscious of being disbelieved.
But Lenehan could well believe it; he nodded gravely.
`I know that game,' he said, `and it's a mug's game.'
`And damn the thing I ever got out of it,' said Corley.
`Ditto here,' said Lenehan.
`Only off of one of them,' said Corley.
He moistened his upper lip by running his tongue along it. The recollection
brightened his eyes. He, too, gazed at the pale disc of the moon, now nearly veiled,
and seemed to meditate.
`She was... a bit of all right,' he said regretfully.
He was silent again. Then he added:
`She's on the turf now. I saw her driving down Earl Street one night with two fellows
with her on a car.'
`I suppose that's your doing,' said Lenehan.
`There was others at her before me,' said Corley philosophically.
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
