This address in the presence of the public, his run upstairs and the
porter he had gulped down so hastily confused the man and, as he sat
down at his desk to get what was required, he realised how hopeless was
the task of finishing his copy of the contract before half past five.
The dark damp night was coming and he longed to spend it in the bars,
drinking with his friends amid the glare of gas and the clatter of
glasses. He got out the Delacour correspondence and passed out of the
office. He hoped Mr Alleyne would not discover that the last two
letters were missing.
The moist pungent perfume lay all the way up to Mr Alleyne’s room. Miss
Delacour was a middle-aged woman of Jewish appearance. Mr Alleyne was
said to be sweet on her or on her money. She came to the office often
and stayed a long time when she came. She was sitting beside his desk
now in an aroma of perfumes, smoothing the handle of her umbrella and
nodding the great black feather in her hat. Mr Alleyne had swivelled
his chair round to face her and thrown his right foot jauntily upon his
left knee. The man put the correspondence on the desk and bowed
respectfully but neither Mr Alleyne nor Miss Delacour took any notice
of his bow. Mr Alleyne tapped a finger on the correspondence and then
flicked it towards him as if to say: _“That’s all right: you can go.”_
The man returned to the lower office and sat down again at his desk. He
stared intently at the incomplete phrase: _In no case shall the said
Bernard Bodley be_ ... and thought how strange it was that the last
three words began with the same letter. The chief clerk began to hurry
Miss Parker, saying she would never have the letters typed in time for
post. The man listened to the clicking of the machine for a few minutes
and then set to work to finish his copy. But his head was not clear and
his mind wandered away to the glare and rattle of the public-house. It
was a night for hot punches. He struggled on with his copy, but when
the clock struck five he had still fourteen pages to write. Blast it!
He couldn’t finish it in time. He longed to execrate aloud, to bring
his fist down on something violently. He was so enraged that he wrote
_Bernard Bernard_ instead of _Bernard Bodley_ and had to begin again on
a clean sheet.
He felt strong enough to clear out the whole office singlehanded. His
body ached to do something, to rush out and revel in violence. All the
indignities of his life enraged him.... Could he ask the cashier
privately for an advance? No, the cashier was no good, no damn good: he
wouldn’t give an advance.... He knew where he would meet the boys:
Leonard and O’Halloran and Nosey Flynn. The barometer of his emotional
nature was set for a spell of riot.
His imagination had so abstracted him that his name was called twice
before he answered. Mr Alleyne and Miss Delacour were standing outside
the counter and all the clerks had turned round in anticipation of
something. The man got up from his desk. Mr Alleyne began a tirade of
abuse, saying that two letters were missing. The man answered that he
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 Apolli
porter he had gulped down so hastily confused the man and, as he sat
down at his desk to get what was required, he realised how hopeless was
the task of finishing his copy of the contract before half past five.
The dark damp night was coming and he longed to spend it in the bars,
drinking with his friends amid the glare of gas and the clatter of
glasses. He got out the Delacour correspondence and passed out of the
office. He hoped Mr Alleyne would not discover that the last two
letters were missing.
The moist pungent perfume lay all the way up to Mr Alleyne’s room. Miss
Delacour was a middle-aged woman of Jewish appearance. Mr Alleyne was
said to be sweet on her or on her money. She came to the office often
and stayed a long time when she came. She was sitting beside his desk
now in an aroma of perfumes, smoothing the handle of her umbrella and
nodding the great black feather in her hat. Mr Alleyne had swivelled
his chair round to face her and thrown his right foot jauntily upon his
left knee. The man put the correspondence on the desk and bowed
respectfully but neither Mr Alleyne nor Miss Delacour took any notice
of his bow. Mr Alleyne tapped a finger on the correspondence and then
flicked it towards him as if to say: _“That’s all right: you can go.”_
The man returned to the lower office and sat down again at his desk. He
stared intently at the incomplete phrase: _In no case shall the said
Bernard Bodley be_ ... and thought how strange it was that the last
three words began with the same letter. The chief clerk began to hurry
Miss Parker, saying she would never have the letters typed in time for
post. The man listened to the clicking of the machine for a few minutes
and then set to work to finish his copy. But his head was not clear and
his mind wandered away to the glare and rattle of the public-house. It
was a night for hot punches. He struggled on with his copy, but when
the clock struck five he had still fourteen pages to write. Blast it!
He couldn’t finish it in time. He longed to execrate aloud, to bring
his fist down on something violently. He was so enraged that he wrote
_Bernard Bernard_ instead of _Bernard Bodley_ and had to begin again on
a clean sheet.
He felt strong enough to clear out the whole office singlehanded. His
body ached to do something, to rush out and revel in violence. All the
indignities of his life enraged him.... Could he ask the cashier
privately for an advance? No, the cashier was no good, no damn good: he
wouldn’t give an advance.... He knew where he would meet the boys:
Leonard and O’Halloran and Nosey Flynn. The barometer of his emotional
nature was set for a spell of riot.
His imagination had so abstracted him that his name was called twice
before he answered. Mr Alleyne and Miss Delacour were standing outside
the counter and all the clerks had turned round in anticipation of
something. The man got up from his desk. Mr Alleyne began a tirade of
abuse, saying that two letters were missing. The man answered that he
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 Apolli