Dubliners, James Joyce [black authors fiction .txt] 📗

into view and the fire lost all its cheerful colour. The walls of the room were bare except for a copy of an election address. In the middle of the room was a small table on which papers were heaped.

Mr. Hynes leaned against the mantelpiece and asked:

“Has he paid you yet?”

“Not yet,” said Mr. O’Connor. “I hope to God he’ll not leave us in the lurch tonight.”

Mr. Hynes laughed.

“O, he’ll pay you. Never fear,” he said.

“I hope he’ll look smart about it if he means business,” said Mr. O’Connor.

“What do you think, Jack?” said Mr. Hynes satirically to the old man.

The old man returned to his seat by the fire, saying:

“It isn’t but he has it, anyway. Not like the other tinker.”

“What other tinker?” said Mr. Hynes.

“Colgan,” said the old man scornfully.

“It is because Colgan’s a workingman you say that? What’s the difference between a good honest bricklayer and a publican⁠—eh? Hasn’t the workingman as good a right to be in the Corporation as anyone else⁠—ay, and a better right than those shoneens that are always hat in hand before any fellow with a handle to his name? Isn’t that so, Mat?” said Mr. Hynes, addressing Mr. O’Connor.

“I think you’re right,” said Mr. O’Connor.

“One man is a plain honest man with no hunker-sliding about him. He goes in to represent the labour classes. This fellow you’re working for only wants to get some job or other.”

“Of course, the working-classes should be represented,” said the old man.

“The workingman,” said Mr. Hynes, “gets all kicks and no halfpence. But it’s labour produces everything. The workingman is not looking for fat jobs for his sons and nephews and cousins. The workingman is not going to drag the honour of Dublin in the mud to please a German monarch.”

“How’s that?” said the old man.

“Don’t you know they want to present an address of welcome to Edward Rex if he comes here next year? What do we want kowtowing to a foreign king?”

“Our man won’t vote for the address,” said Mr. O’Connor. “He goes in on the Nationalist ticket.”

“Won’t he?” said Mr. Hynes. “Wait till you see whether he will or not. I know him. Is it Tricky Dicky Tierney?”

“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 schoolboy 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.

“Thats 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