MM^^j,-k' '.-^ 
 
 msi 
 
CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 Joseph Whitmore Barry 
 dramatic library 
 
 THE GIFT OF 
 TWO FRIENDS 
 
 OF Cornell University 
 1934 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PR6009.R98E31915 
 
 ill 
 
 Eight o'clock, and other studies, 
 
 3 1924 013 610 526 
 
The original of tliis bool< is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013610526 
 
EIGHT O'CLOCK 
 
 AND OTHER SXyDIES 
 
BY THE SAME AUTHOR 
 
 MIXED MARRIAGE 
 A Plav in Four Acts 
 
 THE MAGNANIMOUS LOVER 
 A Plav in One Act 
 
EIGHT O'CLOCK 
 
 AND OTHER STUDIES 
 
 BY ST. JOHN G. ERVINE 
 
 THE MACMILLAN CO. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 i<)i5 
 
TO 
 
 LENNOX ROBINSON 
 
Some of these studies were published in 
 the Nation, Manchester Guardian, Daily 
 News, Sunday Chronicle, Odd Volume, the 
 New Statesman, and the Irish Independent. 
 I am indebted to the Editors of these 
 journals for permission to print them here. 
 ST. J. G. E. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAOK 
 
 EIGHT O'CLOCK ii 
 
 CLUTIE JOHN 1 8 
 
 THE WELL OF YOUTH 24 
 
 AMBITION 31 
 
 THE BLIND MAN 36 
 
 COLLEAGUES 42 
 
 RETIREMENT 51 
 
 THE REVELATION 60 
 
 THE FOOL 67 
 
 CRISIS 73 
 
 THE MATCH 81 
 
 DERELICTS 87 
 
 ADVENTURE 92 
 
 DISCONTENT 99 
 
 COMPARISON 105 
 
 THE BURIAL in 
 
 SAFETY 118 
 
EIGHT O'CLOCK 
 
 A Woman A Girl 
 
 A Child 
 
 It is the dark part of a morning in February : in a 
 little while the sun will break through the black- 
 ness and a grey light will creep through the 
 window of the living-room in a small house in 
 South London, where a Woman, aged beyond 
 her years, which are thirty-three, is kneeling at 
 a chair. Her hands are clenched together, and 
 her eyes are fixed intently on the sky. Her lips 
 move slowly and regularly, and sometimes she 
 cries out, " Oh, God ! Oh, God ! Oh, God ! " 
 There is no other sound in the room, save the 
 ticking of a clock. There is silence, and The 
 Woman, beating her hands together, cries out 
 again, "Oh, God! Oh, God! Oh, God!" 
 The door opens, and a Girl, whose age is 
 twenty-two, enters, feeling her way in the dark. 
 
 The Girl. Are you there, Jenny ? 
 The Woman. Oh, God ! Oh, God ! 
 The Girl. Jenny ! 
 
12 EIGHT O'CLOCK 
 
 The Woman. Oh, God ! 
 
 [The Girl reaches The Woman and kneels 
 down beside her. 
 The Girl. Don't, Jenny ! 
 The Woman. Oh ! 
 
 The Girl. It's me ! Lizzie ! Your sister, 
 Jenny ! I'm with you, dear. Don't take on 
 so ! It's — ^it's all for the best ! 
 
 [The Girl's voice breaks, and she sobs. 
 The Woman. They'll do it ! • I know they will ! 
 There's no mercy ! 
 The Girl. It's hard on you ! 
 The Woman. They don't think of me ! [They 
 are silent for a few moments.] What's the time ? 
 [The Girl gets up from her knees and feels her 
 way towards the fireplace. 
 The Girl. It's too dark — I can't see the clock. 
 The Woman. Strike a match and see. 
 [The Girl strikes a match and looks at the 
 clock. ' 
 
 The Girl. It's just after seven o'clock. 
 The Woman [burying her face in her hands]. 
 Oh, God! Oh, God! 
 
 The Girl. Sometimes they're saved at the last 
 minute. 
 
 [The Woman does not reply. She sways before 
 the chair and moans piteously. Neither 
 speaks. The Girl stands in the centre 
 of the room indeterminately ; then she 
 breaks out passionately. 
 
EIGHT O'CLOCK 13 
 
 The Girl. Oh, they won't do it ! It 'ud be 
 wicked of them to do it ! He never meant any 
 harm. It was the drink. 
 
 The Woman. There never was a better man 
 when he was sober — ^wouldn't hurt any one ! 
 
 The Girl. They ought to make allowances ! 
 He was sorry after he done it. 
 
 The Woman. They never make allowances ! 
 
 The Girl. The people signed a petition for 
 him. His wife signed it, too ! If she could for- 
 give, why can't they ? 
 
 The Woman. They never forgive. 
 
 The Girl. They can't take no notice of the 
 petition. The clergyman signed it. And the 
 Mayor . . . 
 
 The Woman. They'll do it— oh, they'll do it ! 
 
 The Girl. It was in anger he done it ; and 
 they're not angry. He didn't know what he was 
 doing ; and they do. Oh, it's wickedi it's 
 wicked ! It ought not to be allowed ! 
 
 The Woman. Oh ! Oh ! Oh ! 
 
 The Girl. Why doesn't some one tell them ? 
 
 The Woman. They wouldn't hsten. {She holds 
 up her hand, towards the darkness:] Oh, God, make 
 them listen ! Stop them, oh, God ! Soften their 
 hearts ! 
 
 \A Child's voice is heard outside the room. 
 
 The Child. Mother ! 
 
 The Woman. They have no hearts to soften ! 
 
 The Child. Mother ! 
 
14 EIGHT O'CLOCK 
 
 The Girl. There's Maggie calling you. 
 
 [The Woman cries convulsively. 
 The Child. Mother ! 
 The Girl. What is it, dear ? 
 
 [She opens the door, and The Child, in her 
 nightdress, is seen standing in the doorway. 
 The Child. Is Daddy hanged yet. Aunt Lizzie ? 
 [The Girl gathers The Child up in her arms 
 and stops her mouth with hysterical kisses. 
 The Child. You said he'd be hanged to-day, 
 Aunt Lizzie. Is it time yet ? 
 The Woman. Oh, God ! Oh, God ! Oh, God ! 
 The Girl. Don't, dearie, don't say that ! 
 The Child. It's so dark ! Will it hurt him. 
 Aunt Lizzie ? 
 , The Girl. Don't, don't ! 
 
 [The Child climbs out of The Girl's arms 
 and goes to her mother. 
 The Child. Is he hanged yet, mother ? 
 The Woman. No, dear. 
 The Child. Aren't they going to, mother ? 
 You said they would hang him in the morning, 
 and it's the morning now. It is the morning, 
 isn't it ? 
 The Woman. Oh ! 
 
 The Girl. Mebbe they'll let him off, dear. 
 The Child. No, they won't ! I heard a man 
 say Daddy'd be finished to-day ! He said I'd be 
 an orphan to-morrow, and it's to-morrow now ! 
 Isn't it ? 
 
EIGHT O'CLOCK 15 
 
 The Girl. Yes, dear. 
 
 [It has become lighter and The Woman and 
 The Girl and The Child are more 
 distinctly seen. 
 
 The Child. He did that, and a boy laughed. 
 \She makes the motion of a rope being tied 
 round the throat, and puts out her tongue 
 in the manner of the strangled. 
 
 The Girl. You shouldn't listen to them. 
 
 The Child. Will it be long before he's 
 hanged ? 
 
 The Girl. Don't talk hke that, dearie ! 
 
 The Child. Will it be long ? 
 
 The Girl. Not long, dear. 
 
 The Child. What time will they hang him ? 
 
 The Woman. Oh ! Oh ! Oh ! 
 
 The Girl. Don't, dear ! Your poor mother ! 
 Go to bed like a good girl ! 
 
 The Child. I want to stay till Daddy is . . . 
 
 The Girl. Oh, don't, don't, don't ! 
 
 The Child [whimperingl. I don't want to go 
 to bed. 
 
 The Woman. Give her to me. 
 
 [The Girl takes The Child in her arms and 
 carries her to The Woman. The Child 
 kneels beside her mother, who puts her 
 arm round her and buries her face in her 
 hair. 
 
 The Child. It's getting Ught, mother ! 
 
 The Woman. What's the time ? 
 
i6 EIGHT O'CLOCK 
 
 The Girl. It's a quarter to eight. [Her voice 
 is dry and hard.] 
 
 The Woman. A quarter to ! Oh ! Oh ! Oh ! 
 [The Woman sobs. The Child fondles her, 
 but, obtaining no response, whimpers 
 vaguely. The Girl stands passively by 
 the fireplace. There is silence for a little 
 while. 
 
 The Girl. They'll be ready now. 
 
 The Woman. What's that ? 
 
 The Girl. They'll be making preparations. . . , 
 
 The Woman. Oh ! 
 
 The Girl. I saw a picture of it once. . . . 
 They strap their arms and legs. . . . 
 
 The Child. WiU it hurt him, Aunt Lizzie ? 
 
 The Girl. I wonder what he feels like ! 
 
 The Child. Aunt Lizzie, wiU it hurt him ? 
 
 The Girl. They'll be standing round him — 
 gaping at him ! \_She runs frantically to the 
 window and beats her hands against the glass.] 
 Oh, God ! God ! stop it, stop it ! He's only 
 one, and they've got him tied ! Give him a 
 chance ! . . . 
 
 The Woman. He'll be dead soon. Oh, my 
 man, my man ! 
 
 The Child. I want my father ! 
 
 The Woman [clutching The Child to her 
 hysterically]. You'll never see him again. It's 
 us as has to bear it. They never think of us ! 
 
 The Girl. It's nearly eight o'clock. 
 
EIGHT O'CLOCK 17 
 
 The Woman. Pray for your father, dear ! 
 The Child. Yes, mother. 
 
 [The Child covers her face with her hands. 
 The Girl. To be hving now, and dead in a 
 minute ! [Passionately.] It's not right, it's not 
 right ! It's kiUing ! Murder, murder ! 
 The Woman. It's the law ! 
 The Child. What '11 1 say, mother ? 
 The Woman. Just close your eyes, dear, and 
 pray. 
 
 [There is quiet in the room. The Woman and 
 
 The Child kneel beside each other, The 
 
 Child with her face covered with her 
 
 hands, The Woman with her face buried 
 
 in the chair. The Girl stands at the 
 
 window, her hands strained against the 
 
 glass. The dull boom of a clock is heard 
 
 striking the hour of eight. At the first 
 
 stroke The Woman jumps to her feet and 
 
 runs shrieking to the window. 
 
 The Woman. No, no, no, don't do it ! He's a 
 
 good man, he wouldn't ... Oh ! [She falls 
 
 weeping to the ground.] 
 
 [The clock continues to boom out the hour of 
 
 eight. But for this and the choked sobs of 
 
 The Woman, there is silence. Presently 
 
 both cease. There is quiet. 
 
 The Child [uncovering her face]. Is he hanged 
 
 yet. Aunt Lizzie ? 
 
 [It becomes light. 
 
CLUTIE JOHN 
 
 His name was John, and he was left-handed, so 
 he was called Clutie John. If you had guessed 
 for a hundred years and more you would not have 
 guessed what his occupation was. Looking at 
 him, you might have thought that he was an 
 agricultural labourer or a bricklayer, or any of 
 the class of workers who are continually employed 
 in the open, for his face had the ruddy, roughened 
 aspect of one who is frequently beaten by wind 
 and rain and warmed by the sun. His habits, 
 too, would have confirmed you in your belief that 
 he was an agricultural labourer, for he rose and 
 retired early, and his life was conducted with the 
 regularity that belongs not to clockwork (for 
 which he had a mighty contempt), as men assert, 
 but to great natural things. Watches; and all 
 time-pieces, of whatsoever kind; were totally dis- 
 regarded by him. They were vain human con- 
 trivances, no two of which could be trusted to 
 say the same thing. The sun was his guide and 
 counsellor : when it rose; he rose ; when it set; 
 he went to bed ; it never deceived him ; it 
 
 I8 
 
CLUTIE JOHN 19 
 
 needed no regulating; it went neither slow nor 
 fast, and it never ran down. 
 
 " Fin 'in' things " was Clutie John's occupa- 
 tion. Do not misunderstand ; he was not a 
 poUceman or a private inquiry agent or anything 
 remotely resembling either one or the other. He 
 would not have spied for you had you offered him 
 any sum you can imagine as a proper reward for 
 such service. He was a clean man and believed 
 in minding his own business and leaving other 
 people to mind theirs. He did not regard the 
 offer of money as an excuse for the performance 
 of work which was detestable. " Ye shud do a 
 thing;" he would say, "acause ye Uke doin' it, 
 not acause ye 're paid t' do it ! If ye wudden do 
 a thing fur nathin' if ye cud, ye shudden do it fur 
 pay," which was an admirable aphorism on 
 which, strange as it may seem, he constantly 
 acted. 
 
 His occupation literally was that of a finder of 
 things. He went out in the morning before other 
 men were astir, with a bag slung over his shoulders; 
 and a pointed stick in his hand, seeking what he 
 could find. The debris of the previous night's 
 gathering of men and women in the street was 
 not all rubbish; there were all sorts of trifles 
 carelessly dropped by the people which, when 
 picked up by Clutie John, could be turned into 
 profit. Not all the things found were trifles ; 
 some, indeed, were of great value. There was a 
 
20 CLUTIE JOHN 
 
 packet of jewellery that he found once, the reward 
 for which was considerable. Mostly, however, 
 his finds were trifling in themselves. Here a 
 sixpence, there a penny or a halfpenny, a glove, 
 a purse (sometimes empty, sometimes not), 
 pencils, pens, marbles, umbrellas, and what not. 
 These things, discreetly disposed of, were the 
 source of Clutie John's small, but regular, income. 
 
 " People is very forgetful," he would say, with 
 a little reproach in his tone ; and then, as if to 
 make up for the reproach, he would add : " Och, 
 well, sure they've a dale to think about, what 
 wi' wan thing an' another, an' if they wurn't a 
 bit forgetful, it wudden be much o' a living I'd 
 be makin'." 
 
 He was a great friend of all the small boys in 
 the district. This was partly in the way of 
 business, for he sold his " marleys " to them. 
 " Boys is more forgetful nor any one," he would 
 say, while he pulled a number of marbles out of 
 his pockets. " Girls is no good til me. They 
 never furget nathin' but hairpins, an' they're 
 har'ly worth pickin' up. Wee girls furgets nathin' 
 at all. A wud die o' starvation if there wus 
 nathin' but wee girls in the wurl." He would 
 pause for a moment, and then add merrily : 
 " They're the quare wee tories, wee girls ! " 
 which is the Irish way of saying that little girls 
 are pleasant little rascals. Whenever a boy met 
 Clutie John he would cry out to him familiarly. 
 
CLUTIE JOHN 21 
 
 " Ha, Clutie John ! " and Clutie John would 
 gravely reply, " Ha, wee lad ! " 
 
 " Have ye anny marleys the day ? " the boy 
 would say. 
 
 " Ay, A have a brave wee lot ! " Clutie John 
 would reply. 
 
 " How many will ye give us fur a ha'penny ? " 
 and Clutie John would offer to give two or three 
 more for a ha'penny than were given in the shops. 
 
 " It dussen matter whether A give them too 
 manny or not," he would say, by way of excuse 
 for his lavishness. " Sure, they'll loss them soon 
 enough, an' A'U mebbe fin' them, an' sell them 
 back to them again. Wee lads is the quare 
 lossers ! " 
 
 It was in this manner that Clutie John made 
 his hving. Whatever happened in the world 
 made httle difference to him, except in so far as 
 it increased his opportunities for finding things. 
 PubUc holidays, all joyful occasions, were strongly 
 supported by him. On the morning after such 
 days he found much that was good, with less 
 difficulty than usual. " They hing thegither, a 
 crowd," he would say, " an' ye fin' near all ye 
 want wi'out shiftin' about much. They're that 
 happy, they furget more aisily nor when they're 
 just ordinary ! " Monday morning found him 
 making for the lovers' Sunday haunts. " Coortin' 
 couples is very furgetful," he would say. " A 
 make more out o' them nor A do out o' anny one 
 
22 CLUTIE JOHN 
 
 else, except mebbe the wee lads. Bits o' lace 
 hankeys an' things that weemen likes t' have 
 about them of a Sunday." 
 
 He always spoke of his fellows as if they were 
 a different species of being altogether from him- 
 self. They were all " furgetful," and Clutie John 
 never forgot anything. That in itself was suffi- 
 cient to mark him out from them ; but his habits 
 of life made it difficult for him to have much 
 intercourse of a familiar character with any 
 particular person. He knew, and was known by, 
 many ; but of all the persons whom he knew, 
 none could call him friend. The " wee lads " 
 would hold his hand and endeavour to wheedle 
 " marleys " out of him, when they were penniless, 
 and he would send them away quite happy, 
 although they had not succeeded in getting a 
 single " marley " from him. Clutie John never 
 gave anything away. Secreted in his mind was 
 a dreadful fear that a day might come, and that 
 quickly, when he would not be able to go out in 
 the morning and find things, and all his life was 
 a great effort to prepare for that time. He lived 
 alone, and cooked his own meals ; he never went 
 to a theatre or music-hall, or a church ; in a 
 queer odd way of his own he was religious, but 
 precisely what he believed no one knew. 
 
 He was easily moved by natural beauty ; he 
 would sniff the fresh morning air, not for reasons 
 of health (for he hated open windows), but for the 
 
CLUTIE JOHN 23 
 
 sheer joy of feeling it in his lungs ; and the sun 
 rising from behind the hills and casting its first 
 chilly rays on the river always made him stand 
 still for awhile and whistle. There were no great 
 joys in his life and no great sorrows, his progress 
 through the world was smooth and unexhilarating, 
 nothing disturbed his equanimity ; an unusually 
 large find of " marleys " excited him as little as 
 an unusually small find, outwardly at all events, 
 for no doubt the secret fear lurking in his mind 
 made such things of great moment to him ; but 
 on the surface of his life he showed as a simple, 
 serene, almost passionless man, for whom such 
 things as joys and griefs did not exist. 
 
 When he died, as he did suddenly, he left a 
 considerable sum of money. It passed into the 
 hands of the State, for he had no kin and had 
 made no will. It was odd to think of him scraping 
 and saving, not in the least like the conventional 
 miser, and at the end all that he had scraped 
 together passing from him to the community, 
 through whose " forgetfulness " he had made his 
 small fortune. 
 
THE WELL OF YOUTH 
 
 Michael Cregan and I were walking through 
 the Vale of Ovoca, when we came to St. Brigid's 
 Well, that was gushing out of a rock. Said I : 
 "It's the great thirst I have on me, and I'll take 
 a drink." To which Michael replied : " Now, be 
 aisy wi' that watter, fur sure ye don't know the 
 harrum ye might do t' yerself." 
 
 " And what's the matter with the water ? " I 
 asked. 
 
 " Sure, don't ye know the quality of it ? " was 
 the question that he put to me in reply. 
 
 " I do not," said I. 
 
 " Aw, now, it's the good job I was wi' ye, or 
 ye might be destroyed through yer ignerance." 
 
 " What's the matter with it, anyway ? " I 
 exclaimed. 
 
 " Did ye nivir hear tell o' the man an' his wife 
 that drunk o' it wi'out knowin' annythin' about 
 it ? John O'Neill was his name, an' a dacent 
 man, an' the name o' his wife was Bridget, but 
 she wus beside herself wi' consate, an' didden like 
 t' be called Biddy. ' Me name's Bride,' she wud 
 say, spakin' like a publican's wife thrum Dublin." 
 
 24 
 
THE WELL OF YOUTH 25 
 
 " I never heard a word about them in my 
 life. . . ,■' 
 
 " An' you been t' college an' all, wi' the larnin' 
 o' Trinity in yer head ! " 
 
 " Well, you tell me about it, for dear sake," 
 said I, " and not be standing there making a 
 clatter with your tongue, and me nearly dead with 
 the drouth ! " 
 
 " Sure, have yer drink, but don't take too 
 much, an' I'll tell ye about it as sure as ye 're 
 Stan 'in' there." 
 
 I drank eagerly of the cool clear water that 
 comes out of a rock and is called St. Brigid's 
 Well ; for St. Brigid, I would have you know, 
 was as great a woman as St. Patrick was a man, 
 and many a tale is told of her in Ireland this day 
 that I would tell to you had I the time. 
 
 " You'll be wanting a drink yourself, mebbe ? " 
 said I to Michael when I had drunk my fill. 
 
 " I do that," said he, and ducked his head 
 down and drank as I had done. And when he 
 had finished we resumed our journey through the 
 Vale of Ovoca, and he told me this tale of the 
 man that was called O'Neill and his wife Bridget 
 and the strange thing that befell them at the 
 well of St. Brigid. 
 
 " He wus an ould man wus John O'Neill whin 
 he come til these parts. It wus thrum the north 
 he come, an' wus descended thrum the O'Neills 
 
26 THE WELL OF YOUTH 
 
 of Ulster. Manny a time ye'd be seein' somethin' 
 in a paper about the Red Han' o' O'Neill. It 
 wus that family he belonged til. He married a 
 wumman quaren younger nor himself. Mebbe 
 twenty year younger she wus, an' wus the 
 daughter o' a man that kep' a shop in Ennis- 
 killen. Sure, she was no match fur him in blood. 
 Her family was English an' nathin' til spake of 
 at all. She wus the quare one fur lettin' on 
 about herself. She wud tell ye her age was 
 twenty-eight, an' her near double that, an' the 
 wrinkles roun' her eyes like cart tracks in a 
 loanin' in wet weather. But, sure, ye cudden 
 shame the wumman an' affront her afore her 
 own man that knew as well as she did what her 
 age wus, an' ye cud on'y purtend ye belaved her. 
 It's a poor thing t' be exposin' tricks that do no 
 harrum. 
 
 " Wan day whin John O'Neill wus comin' the 
 very way we're walkin' now, carryin' a load o' 
 somethin' or another on his back, an' him that 
 tired he cud har'ly walk, fur he wus near bent 
 wi' age already, t' say nathin' o' a load as well, 
 he come up til St. Brigid's Well, an', ses he, as 
 ye might say yerself, ' It's a rest I'll be havin' an' 
 a drink o' water t' drink, fur I'm that tired an' 
 thirsty I'm fit t' drop ! ' An' wi' that he throws 
 down his load on the groun', an', groanin' like 
 a wheel that hassen had grease at it fur a year; 
 he tries til straighten his back. ' Sure, I wish I 
 
THE WELL OF YOUTH 27 
 
 wus thirty years younger/ ses he, ' an' it's not 
 makin' me tired a load like that wud be.' An' 
 whin he'd had a bit o' a rest he stooped down an' 
 tuk a drink, an' he drunk a quare lot. An' whin 
 he stud up again ye wudden belave but he wus 
 a young man. Thirty years wus aff his age as 
 sure as ye 're stan'in' there ! ' Lord bliss me 
 sowl ! ' ses he, ' this is the quare set-out ! Sure, 
 me wife '11 not know me at all whin I git home ! ' 
 He stretched himself, an' begun to caper about 
 like a wil' thing. ' Ah, now,' ses he, ' issen this 
 the quare fine thing's happened t' me ? I come 
 in here an ould man an' I'm goin' out young ! ' 
 
 Michael broke off in his story to comment on 
 this. " Sure, that's the way it ought t' be, 
 anny way, though mebbe it's the same thing 
 whin ye come t' think o' it. Ye git quaren like 
 a chile whin ye git ould, they say." 
 
 He proceeded with the story. 
 
 " He picked up his load, an' it wus no trouble 
 til him at all. ' Och ! ' ses he, ' I cud carry a 
 dozen loads the like o' this, an' not feel it at 
 all ! ' When he got til his house, sure wussen 
 Bridget stan'in' there, and didden know a bit o' 
 him. She lukked at him amazed, an' ses she, 
 ' Who are ye at all ? Sure, I uset t' know some- 
 wan quaren like ye, but I can't lay me min' t' 
 who it wus.' ■ Och ! don't ye know me. Bride ? ' 
 ses he, caperin' about like a young goat. ' Is it 
 me man ye are ? ' ses she. ' It is that ! ' ses he. 
 
28 THE WELL OF YOUTH 
 
 ' Aw, glory be t' God ! ' ses she, ' an' what's 
 come over ye ? ' ' Come on intil the house,' ses 
 he, ' an' I'll tell ye.' They wint intU the house, 
 an' he tould her about St. Brigid's Well, an' ses 
 he, ' Me girl, ye 're alwis purtendin' ye 're twenty- 
 eight, an' you near double that age. It's a pity 
 ye don't go til the well an' git a driiik yerself, 
 so's ye cud be young in truth.' He hadden got 
 the words out o' his mouth afore she jumped up 
 and put her shawl roun' her head. ' Will ye tell 
 me where it is,' ses she, ' an' I'll go there this 
 minit ? ' 'I will, surely,' ses he, an' he give her 
 fuU directions, an' as soon as she heard him, af£ 
 she wint as hard as she cud, which wussen very 
 hard, fur she wus gettin' stout in her ould age 
 an' wussen althegither firm on her fetet. Whin 
 she'd gone, John O'Neill sut down in the house 
 afore the fire an' lit his pipe, til wait fur her 
 comin' back. He waited an' waited, but she wus 
 the quare long time comin'. ' She oughta be 
 back be this time,' ses he. ' Sure, it's not as far 
 as that.' 
 
 " He was beginnin' til git a bit onaisy, an' he 
 kep' on goin' til the dure til see if she wus comin', 
 but there wussen a sign o' her anny where. It 
 wus beginnin' til git dark, an' so he walked a bit 
 o' the way til meet her, but not a bit o' her did 
 he see. ' Now, issen it provokin',' ses he, ' the 
 way that wumman carries on ? Sure, she cud 
 ha' bin there an' back twice over if she'd liked. 
 
THE WELL OF YOUTH 29 
 
 I suppose I'll have t' go after her, an' see what's 
 become o' her. An' whin I'm there I may as well 
 take another drop o' the blessed watter.' 
 
 " He walked on an' on, an' as'he walked it got 
 darker and darker. ' It's hard tU fin' yer way 
 in the dark nights,' ses he, ' whin ye 're a stranger 
 in a district. I hope no harrum's come til 
 her. . . .' After a while he come tU the Vale 
 o' Ovoca, an' not a sign o' his wife cud he see 
 annywhere. He wus in a tarr'ble state. ' Dear- 
 a-dear,' ses he, ' what'U I do wi'out me wumman ! ' 
 An' wi' that he comes up tU the well, an' as soon 
 as he got there he heard somone cryin', an' goin' 
 up, he saw a babby that wus cryin' its eyes out. 
 
 " ' What ails ye ? ' ses he. 
 
 " ' D'ye not know me ? ' ses the chUe. 
 
 " ' I do not, indeed,' ses he ; ' an' it's the 
 strange thing tU hear a chile talkin' like a grown 
 wumman ! ' 
 
 " ' Sure, I'm yer wife ! ' ses the chile. 
 
 " ' Ye 're me what ? ' ses he. 
 
 " ' I'm yer wife,' ses she. 
 
 " ' Holy Murdher ! ' ses he, ' what's happened 
 till ye at all ? ' 
 
 " ' I did what ye tould me,' ses she. ' I come 
 here an' drunk the watter, an' felt meself gittin' 
 younger, an' it was that fine a feelin' til be young 
 again that I furgot til stap, an' I tuktoo much ! ' " 
 
 Michael and I came out of the Vale of Ovoca 
 
30 THE WELL OF YOUTH 
 
 together, and parted company- " Ye shud alwis 
 be careful," said he, " not to be too greedy at the 
 Well o' Youth." 
 
 " It's a fine tale," I replied ; and maybe some- 
 thing in my voice made him think I was mocking 
 him. 
 
 " It's no lie I'm tellin' ye," he said, " but the 
 God's truth ! " 
 
 " Och, away out of that with you ! " said I, 
 for I've lived in towns and the sap of life has gone 
 out of me. " It would take more water than's in 
 the well of St. Brigid to make me young enough 
 to believe a tale like that ! " 
 
 " Aw, God help ye," said Michael, " but ye 're 
 in the quare bad way ! Sure, if ye don't want 
 til belave a thing, it dussen matter whether it's 
 true or not ; and if ye do want til belave it, sure 
 it dussen matter aythir." 
 
AMBITION 
 
 I MET him in Kew Gardens, where the rhodo- 
 dendrons are thickest. He was standing gazing 
 at a great clump of red blooms, and there was a 
 curious little smile on his face, expressive of the 
 pleasure a child or a savage must feel in con- 
 templating a pleasing but uncomprehended thing. 
 It would indeed have been a most insensible 
 creature that could have passed between those 
 bright bushes unmoved, and there was nothing 
 singular in the fact that a man should be standing 
 still in front of the rhododendrons with a glad 
 look on his face. It was when I met him later 
 on that I thought him an odd sort of being. We 
 sat on the same seat, and we laughed at precisely 
 the same moment when a child went by, making a 
 curious sound by way of singing ; and that made 
 us friends for the little while that we sat there, 
 gazing idly about us. He was a little thin man, 
 with delicate features and mild grey eyes. His 
 hair was thin and wispy and discoloured, but 
 neatly brushed. His clothes were old, but, save 
 for their age, impeccable. There was about him 
 
 31 
 
32 AMBITION 
 
 an air of dinginess that was difficult to describe. 
 You could not say that he was dingy because his 
 clothes were very worn or unsightly, or his 
 trousers were baggy and frayed at the edges, or 
 his boots were down-at-heel or thin-soled ; for 
 none of those things was true. He did not 
 appear to you in parts ; he appeared to you as a 
 whole, and that whole amazingly dingy. 
 
 I discovered that he was a bookseller's assistant; 
 and I was pleased to learn that this was his 
 occupation ; for I am a lover of books, and I 
 thought to myself : " Now I shall be able to talk 
 about books and bookmen for an hour or so with 
 one who knows something of both. . . ." 
 
 " I don't do much reading myself," he said. 
 " Don't 'ave the time." I was overwhelmed at 
 the dropped aitch. Such mutilation of language 
 was becoming, no doubt, in a grocer or an insur- 
 ance agent, or some such clod, but utterly im- 
 proper in one who handled books. " Reading 
 isn't much in my line," he continued ; " not what 
 you would call reading. I mean to say, I read 
 the paper now and again, when I have time, I 
 mean, and I always get Rule Britannia " — 
 that is not the name of the paper he mentioned — 
 " but not what you would call reading, I don't. 
 I 'aven't the time for it." 
 
 I inquired whether he never felt any desire to 
 take down a book from its shelf in a quiet part 
 of the day and read it. 
 
AMBITION 33 
 
 " Not what you would call read it, I don't," 
 he repeated. " I might 'ave a look at the pic- 
 tures, if there were any, or blow the dust off the 
 edges, or look at the price on the fly-leaf ; but 
 not what you would call read." 
 
 I shifted the conversation to other topics. It 
 was disappointing to have drawn so hopeless a 
 blank on the subject of books, and so I went to 
 that ignoble thing, politics. I said what I thought 
 of this party and that, one political policy and 
 another, that politician and the other politician, 
 and then inquired what his views were. He 
 dared say I was right. He was not one of those 
 who took much interest in politics. In his 
 opinion they were all much alike, meaning thereby 
 that they were all equally bad. He was inclined 
 to think that there was a great deal in political 
 life which could do with a little showing up — 
 he quite agreed with Rule Britannia about that. 
 Not that he thought that things were quite as 
 bad as Rule Britannia sometimes tried to make 
 out ; he believed in moderation in all things, 
 and particularly in expressions of opinion ; but 
 this he did think, and this he was prepared to 
 assert emphatically : things were not as good as 
 they might be, and could very well be improved. 
 Of course, he added, he might be wrong. Who 
 mightn't ? The greatest in the world might 
 sometimes be wrong. He well remembered how 
 his father, now lamentably dead, had said that 
 
 c 
 
34 AMBITION 
 
 the man who never made a mistake never made 
 anything ; and he was inclined to think that that 
 was true. But still, making all allowances for 
 error, he thought that things were not so good as 
 they might be. 
 
 " I don't really take much interest in poUtics, 
 of course. I don't 'ave the time. You see, I 
 'ave to be at the shop so long. I 'ave to be there 
 at nine, you know, and we don't close until eight. 
 Charing Cross Road hours are very late, you see, 
 and on Saturdays it's later still ; so, of course, 
 I don't 'ave the time, do I ? " 
 
 I remarked that his life did not appear to be a 
 very exhilarating one. " Oh, I don't know," he 
 replied. " It's not so bad, you know. It could 
 be worse, couldn't it ? I know some people 
 much worse off than I am — I do, really. It's 
 not what you would call an exciting life, not Very, 
 I mean, but it's regular, and you get used to it ; 
 and, of course, excitement doesn't suit some men. 
 It mightn't suit me. You never know, do you ? 
 So perhaps it's as well things are like they are." 
 
 He never went to a theatre or a concert or to 
 any sort of amusement. He hadn't the time. 
 His chief, if not his sole recreation was a little 
 stroll in the Gardens on a Sunday morning. 
 
 " It's just as well, perhaps," he said, " that I 
 'aven't much time for any of those things. You 
 see, in our business the pay is very small — ^very 
 small — ^not what you would call much ; and if I 
 
AMBITION 35 
 
 'ad much time on my 'ands I might get discon- 
 tented, and I shouldn't hke that. Probably it's 
 good for me. My father used to say 'ard work 
 never killed no one, and I think that's true." 
 
 I looked at the little, mean-looking man with 
 the mild grey eyes and the deHcate features, 
 sitting there surrounded by the splendidly 
 coloured rhododendrons, sharning us humans with 
 their magnificence, and of a sudden I became 
 presumptuous. 
 
 " Don't you ever get tired of the monotony of 
 it ? " I asked him. 
 
 " Oh, no," he replied. " What would be the 
 good ? " 
 
 " But don't you feel you want to do something 
 better than that with your life ? Ambition, I 
 mean ? " 
 
 For the first time a look of yearning came into 
 his eyes, and he stared steadily in front of him for 
 a second or so. 
 
 " Yes," he said, after a little while, " sometimes 
 I think it would be nice to have two pounds a 
 week certain. . . ." 
 
THE BLIND MAN 
 
 There was a man that was blind from his birth 
 to whom sight was given suddenly. He saw 
 before he knew that he could see, and since 
 he did not know that his sight had been 
 given to him he was afraid, for he thought 
 that there was something the matter with his 
 eyes. 
 
 Those who were passing stopped to listen to 
 him. " Why, what ails you ? " they demanded 
 of the blind man. 
 
 " I am afraid," he replied. " There was 
 nothing in my eyes a moment ago, and now there 
 are great shadows ! . . ." 
 
 " What do you see ? " they said. 
 
 " See ! " cried the blind man impatiently. 
 " I cannot see. Have I not told you that I am 
 blind ? " 
 
 " But tell us what is in your eyes." 
 
 The blind man stood for a moment quietly, and 
 his eyes looked fixedly towards the man who held 
 his hand. 
 
 " There is a great shadow in my eyes," he said 
 36 
 
THE BLIND MAN 37 
 
 at last, "and sound comes from it. It moves. 
 Oh, I am afraid ! ... Is that a man ? " 
 
 And the man who held his hand said, " I am a 
 man, and these that are about me are men and 
 women. Those are houses that you see reaching 
 above you." 
 
 " I am afraid to move ! " 
 
 " Come," they said, " take but one step. It 
 will be easy when you have done that." 
 
 " I am afraid," he said, looking up at the great 
 buildings on either side of the street. " I am 
 afraid that they wUl fall on me." 
 
 The crowd laughed at him, saying, "We have 
 walked between those houses since we were born, 
 and they have done us no harm. We built 
 them." 
 
 " But I have not seen them before." 
 
 " You knew that they were there. You have 
 lived in some of them. You can see them now. 
 Look how we push them, and they do not fall ! " 
 
 " It is very strange," said the blind man. 
 
 " Now, you must walk," they urged again. 
 
 " I must walk ! " 
 
 He put his foot out as he had done in the days 
 when he could not see. 
 
 " No," they said, " you must lift your feet 
 from the ground. You must not drag them so. 
 It is only blind men who shuffle along. Men who 
 can see lift their feet from the ground." 
 
 " I shall fall." 
 
38 THE BLIND MAN 
 
 " We will save you if you fall." 
 
 He stood still, gazing queerly at the street. 
 
 " What is all that ? " he asked, pointing to the 
 horses and carts that passed rapidly. 
 
 " That is the traffic," they said. " You must 
 not step off the pavement until you are accus- 
 tomed to the sight of it. Even men who see are 
 sometimes afraid of it. It moves so quickly." 
 
 " I wish I had not lost my blindness ! " 
 
 " It is cowardly to say that ! " 
 
 " I was happy in my blindness ! " 
 
 " You wUl be happy with your sight." 
 
 " I do not want to see ! There is so much to 
 learn." 
 
 " You cannot help yourself," they said. " You 
 are blind no longer. You can see. You must go 
 on seeing ! " 
 
 " I am afraid ! " 
 
 They brought him to a quiet place so that he 
 might get accustomed to seeing. 
 
 " Look about you," they said. " Look at the 
 green." 
 
 " Green ! " he said, puckering up the flesh 
 between his eyes in the manner of one who is 
 puzzled. " What is green ? " 
 
 " It is a colour," they replied. 
 
 " Oh, yes," he said, trying to associate the 
 word with the idea that had been in his mind 
 before he had received his sight. " I under- 
 stand. It is a colour." 
 
THE BLIND MAN 39 
 
 " This is grass," they said. 
 
 " Grass ! It is green, is it not ? " 
 
 " It is." 
 
 " That is what green is," he said, looking at 
 the grass intently. " May I take some ? " 
 
 They put grass into his hands, and he looked at 
 it for a long time. " That is green ! " he mur- 
 mured ; and as he spoke his eyes wandered to a 
 pine-tree that stood near. " What is that ? " 
 he asked ; and they told him. 
 
 " Has it got colour, too ? " he said. 
 
 " It also is green," they replied. 
 
 " But it is not the same colour as the grass ! " 
 He turned to them reproachfully. " You said that 
 this was green," he exclaimed, holding out the 
 blades of grass to them, " and now you say that 
 that is green ! " He pointed to the pine-tree. 
 " You are deceiving me," he said bitterly. " I 
 am a blind man and have never seen before. You 
 are mocking me ! " 
 
 Said they : " The grass and the pine-tree are 
 both green. There are varieties of green. There 
 is light green and dark green, the green of grass 
 and the green of the pine-tree ; there is green 
 that is almost yellow, and green like blue and 
 green like black. There is the green of holly 
 leaves and ivy, and the green of corn and wheat. 
 There is the green of young leaves in spring and 
 the green of old leaves in autumn. There is not 
 one green, but many kinds of green." 
 
40 THE BLIND MAN 
 
 " And are all things like that ? " he asked. 
 
 " All things are like that," they replied. 
 
 " Then, indeed, it were better for me that I 
 
 had remained blind. How shall I find my way 
 
 through the world, when I must stop to learn all 
 
 these things about one thing ? When I have 
 
 learned green I must learn blue, and when I have 
 
 learned blue I must learn red. When I know the 
 
 pine-tree I must learn to know the oak and the 
 
 ash and the wUlow. I am too old to learn all 
 
 these things. I do not want my sight. I wish to 
 
 be blind again. I was happy when I was blind. 
 
 I could move about without fear. My stick 
 
 tapping on the ground enabled me to find my 
 
 way. I am not happy without my stick." 
 * * * * iif 
 
 They left the blind man, and told him he must 
 learn to walk by himself. He besought them not 
 to leave him, and moaned piteously when they 
 said they must go. " We have much to do," they 
 said. " You must learn to stand by yourself, so 
 that you may come and help us." 
 
 " I shall never be able to help," he said. " I 
 shall never cease to be afraid." 
 
 When they had gone he sat down on the ground, 
 and was filled with despair. The clouds passing 
 swiftly over his head caused him to tremble lest 
 they should fall out of the sky and overwhelm 
 him in disaster. He sat for a long time, looking 
 about him, and then said to himself, " I will try 
 
THE BLIND MAN 41 
 
 to walk." He raised himself slowly and fear- 
 fully from the ground and stood up. He became 
 dizzy and swayed a little. " I shall fall down," 
 he said to himself. But though he swayed a 
 little and his legs rocked, he did not fall. He 
 moved, and then, his voice being tremulous, said, 
 " I can walk a step, I can walk ! " He moved 
 quickly, and fell. " I knew," he said ruefully, 
 and he rubbed himself where he had been bruised. 
 " I knew that I should fall ! " And he declared 
 that he would walk no more. But after a whUe 
 he said he would try again, and he walked a long 
 way until he came to the end of the field where a 
 hedge was. " I can walk ! " he said joyfully. 
 " I can walk ! I can walk ! " He turned to 
 walk back again, and when he had gone part of 
 the way, he said, " I will run ! " And he ran, but 
 so quickly that he could not stop, and he collided 
 with the hedge, and was torn by the thorns. 
 " I will walk," he said, " but I will not run." 
 
 After he had walked and had run and had 
 leaped, and could go about the earth like other 
 men, he came to the town and walked through the 
 street in which his sight had come to him. And 
 he was not afraid. He walked easily. " It is 
 almost," he said, " as if I were blind again ! " 
 
COLLEAGUES 
 
 Mr. Justice McBurnie stepped quickly into the 
 shelter of the little passage, and collided with the 
 man who had already taken refuge there. 
 
 " I beg your pardon," he murmured. " It's 
 very dark. . . ." 
 
 " That's all right, sir," the stranger replied in a 
 cheery voice. " Bit awkward comin' in 'ere out 
 of the light, ain't it ? Sudden, I mean." 
 
 " Yes," replied the judge, turning to look at 
 the rain-drenched street. " A very heavy shower," 
 he added. 
 
 " Yes, an' come on so sudden, too. Funny 
 sort of weather we bin 'avin' lately, ain't we ? 
 One minute sun shinin', an' the next you get 
 soaked through. No certainty about it. I sup- 
 pose it's bein' so near the sea, an' the 'ills, an' 
 one thing an' another." 
 
 " I suppose so," said Mr. Justice McBurnie in 
 the tone of one who is indifferent to the conversa- 
 tion of his companion. He looked for a moment 
 at him, and saw a small man, seemingly of mild 
 
 manners, with an odd way of smiling when he 
 
 42 
 
COLLEAGUES 43 
 
 spoke, as though beneath his most commonplace 
 phrase there lurked some inscrutably comic 
 meaning known only to him. 
 
 " You're a native of this town ? " asked the 
 judge. 
 
 " Oh, yes. Born an' bred 'ere. I got a shop, 
 you know." 
 
 " Indeed ! " 
 
 " Yes. I do a bit of travellin' now an' again. 
 Nothink to speak of . . . . Gummy, ain't it comin' 
 down, eh ? " 
 
 The storm had grown in severity while they 
 stood in the passage, and the rain came down in 
 sheets. 
 
 " Most unfortunate," murmured Mr. Justice 
 McBurnie. " I've come quite a long way from 
 my hotel without an umbrella or a mackintosh, 
 I hope it won't last much longer." 
 
 The little man smiled in his odd, superior, 
 knowing way. " You never know," he said, 
 " now the Assizes is on ! " 
 
 " The Assizes ! " 
 
 " Yes. Some people say there's bound to be 
 bad weather when the Assizes is on. 'Specially 
 when there's a murder case. Funny the things 
 people do say about Assizes, ain't it ? " 
 
 The judge did not reply. 
 
 " Now, there's my ole mother. She would 'ave 
 it that it was against the law for a butcher to 
 serve on a jury trs^n' a man for 'is life. She 
 
44 COLLEAGUES 
 
 wouldn't believe it wasn't true. Of course, it 
 ain't true. I ast a gentleman once — 'e was a 
 lawyer, you know — ^an' 'e said 'e'd never 'eard of 
 such a thing." 
 
 " What a curious thing for your mother to 
 believe ! " said Mr. Justice McBurnie, turning to 
 the garrulous little man. 
 
 " Yes it was, wasn't it ? Of course she don't 
 believe it now, sir. She's dead." 
 
 " Oh indeed ! " 
 
 " Yes. She was a good ole soul. Seventy-two 
 she was, an' 'ad 'er senses to the last. But she 
 wouldn't believe it wasn't true about butchers, 
 sir, not if the queen 'erself 'ad swore it on the 
 Bible. She said it stood to reason butchers 
 wouldn't be allowed to try a man for his life. 
 ' Killin' animals all day,' she said, ' made 'em 
 callous, an' they'd 'ang you as soon as look at 
 
 you ! ' " 
 
 Mr. Justice McBurnie laughed. " Oh," he said, 
 "was that why she objected to butchers on juries ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir, an' you couldn't shake 'er out of it. 
 Of course, butchers is a bit 'ard. No doubt about 
 it. Stan's to reason, as she said. You can't go 
 on takin' life like they do an' not get a bit 'ardened, 
 can you ? On'y wot I used to say to 'er was, it 
 ain't the law. It may be common sense, ses I, 
 but it ain't the law. But she would 'ave it that 
 it was. Stubborn, sir ! Seventy-two, she was, 
 but that stubborn ! " 
 
COLLEAGUES 45 
 
 The judge advanced towards the edge of the 
 passage and gazed up at the dark sky, and then 
 up and down the street. 
 
 " It doesn't seem to get any better," he said. 
 
 " No," said the stranger, " it won't now, I 
 shouldn't think." 
 
 " I wonder if I could get a cab or some sort of 
 vehicle ? " 
 
 The little man thought it was probable that 
 he might. " I'll go up to the 'ead of the street," 
 he said, " when the rain's over a bit, an' see if I 
 can get one for you." 
 
 " You're very kind . . ." 
 
 "Oh no, sir, not at aU ! You're a stranger 
 'ere, an' if we can't do a thing like that for a 
 stranger, wot's the good of us ? " 
 
 They stood in silence for a few moments, and 
 then the little man began to speak kgain. 
 
 " You know, 'e must feel a bit queer to-night, 
 I should think." 
 
 " I beg your pardon," exclaimed Mr. Justice 
 McBurnie. 
 
 " The chap wot's goin' to be tried to-morrow. 
 Young fella, 'e is. Killed a girl 'e was walkin' 
 out with." 
 
 "Oh, yes! Yes, yes 1 " 
 
 " I suppose you 'card about it. Jealousy ! " 
 
 The judge nodded his head. 
 
 " Now, there's a thing I can't understand, you 
 know. If I was walkin' out with a girl, an' she 
 
46 COLLEAGUES 
 
 got up to any tricks, runnin' after other fellas, I 
 wouldn't go an' kill 'er or nothink. I'd simply 
 tell 'er to go to 'ell, or somethink of that sort. 
 Silly to go an' get 'ung for her ! Some people's 
 funny-natured, ain't they ? " 
 
 " That's true." 
 
 " We ain't all alike, of course. Wouldn't do 
 if we was. But I mean to say I can't understand 
 a chap goin' an' killin' a girl for a thing like that. 
 I mean to say, there don't seem no sense in it, 
 some'ow." 
 
 " There isn't." 
 
 " No. An' yet they go an' do it. I've knowed 
 case after case like that. Decent enough young 
 fellas, you know, on'y they go an' do a,thing like 
 that. It seems a pity, some'ow." 
 
 " Yes . . ." 
 
 " Of course, you 'ave to be firm about it. It 
 wouldn't do to go lettin' 'em off or anythink, on'y 
 some'ow. . . . Well, there was that young chap 
 Smith — ^now, 'e wasn't a bad chap, 'e wasn't. 
 A bit 'ot-'eaded. 'E done the same's this chap, 
 an' 'e got 'ung same's this one will ..." 
 
 " How do you know this one will be 
 hanged ? " 
 
 " Oh, 'e'U be 'ung all right ! The judge can't 
 'elp 'isself. Clear case. Clear as anythink. I 
 dessay the judge won't like doin' it. No one 
 would. On'y it's got to be done. You've got 
 to 'ave judges, an' if people goes about killin' 
 
COLLEAGUES 47 
 
 other people, the judges 'ave got to sentence 
 them to death. Can't 'elp theirselves. That's 
 'ow I look at it." 
 
 " I daresay you are right. I think the rain is 
 going off. I believe it'U stop soon." 
 
 " Can't help theirselves. It's got to be done, 
 an' if it's got to be done, some one's got to do it. 
 That's wot I told my ole mother about butchers. 
 No good cursin' 'em, an' callin' 'em 'ard-'earted 
 an' all that, if you eat meat. You can't 'ave 
 meat unless there's butchers. I don't s'pose they 
 do it for the fun of the thing ! " 
 
 " No, I daresay not," said Mr. Justice McBurnie. 
 " Do you think you could do what you so kindly 
 suggested a few moments ago : get a cab for 
 me ? I'm sorry to trouble you. . . ." 
 
 " No trouble at all, sir." The little man walked 
 to the entrance to the passage and stood there 
 for a moment or two while he turned up the collar 
 of his coat. " You know," he said, turning to the 
 judge, " they'll 'ang 'im all right. Can't help 
 theirselves ! " 
 
 " Well, well," said the judge impatiently. 
 
 " You know," continued the little man, 
 " it's the first case in this town. We got a 
 new gaol 'ere. I'm a bit interested in the 
 case." 
 
 " NaturaUy." 
 
 " I knoo 'im well, sir. Often an' often 'e'd 
 come into my shop to 'ave a shave. Very 
 
48 COLLEAGUES 
 
 partickler 'e was about bein' shaved. Very 
 partickler. Couldn't bear to 'ave it done up. 
 Very tender skin 'e 'ad." 
 
 " If you wouldn't mind ..." 
 
 ""Don't mind a bit, sir. Not a bit. I never 
 thought 'e would come to this. Come into my 
 shop reg'lar 'e would. I never felt about any 
 one the way I do about 'im. . . ." 
 
 Mr. Justice McBurnie came to the little man's 
 side and peered up the street. " I believe I can 
 hear wheels," he said. 
 
 " So you can sir. I'll just run up and fetch 
 the cab sir. Shan't be 'alf a sec ! " 
 
 In a little while the cab came down the street 
 and the judge stepped out of the passage. 
 
 " Won't you let me drive you home ? " he said 
 to the stranger. 
 
 " It's very kind of you, I'm sure, sir. I ain't 
 got far to go . . ." 
 
 " You've been so very obliging," continued the 
 judge. " I should like to . . ." 
 
 " Well, thank you, sir." 
 
 They stepped into the cab and the judge told 
 the stranger the name of the hotel at which he 
 was stopping. 
 
 " You'd better tell him to drive to your 
 home first, and then he can take me to the 
 hotel." 
 
 " Yes, sir." He called the name of his street 
 to the cabman. " That's the name of the 'otel 
 
COLLEAGUES 49 
 
 where the judge is stoppin'," he said, as they 
 drove off. 
 
 Mr. Justice McBurnie leant back in his 
 seat and smiled. " Yes," he said, " I ani the 
 judge." 
 
 The stranger sat up and regarded him with 
 curiosity. " Are you, now ! " he said. " You 
 know, that's strange, that is ! You an' me's in 
 the same line of business, so to speak." 
 
 " Indeed ! " 
 
 " Yes. Funny coincidence, I call it, you an' 
 me talkin' the way we was about 'im," 
 
 " About whom ? " 
 
 " 'Im as killed the girl. 'E'd be surprised to 
 'ear about this, 'e would." 
 
 " I'm afraid I don't understand," said Mr. 
 Justice McBurnie. 
 
 " Welli it's simple enough, sir. You're the 
 judge an' I'm the 'angman." 
 
 Mr. Justice McBurnie sat up in his seat, and 
 the smile disappeared from his lips. He tried to 
 speak, but the words clung to his teeth and would 
 not be uttered. 
 
 " Sort of in the same business, you an' me," 
 said the little man. " You begin it, and I end 
 ,it. Funny coincidence, I call it. Fancy me 
 tellin' you about 'im, an' you the judge and me 
 the 'angman ! Used to come into my shop 
 reg'lar 'e did, an' 'ave a shave. Very partickler, 
 'e was. . . . Wot did you say, sir ? " 
 
 D 
 
50 COLLEAGUES 
 
 Mr. Justice McBurnie did not speak. 
 
 " I expec' you're tired, sir. Up too late. I get 
 out 'ere. You know, when you come to think of 
 it, it's a funny coincidence. . . . Goo'-night, 
 sir ! Goo'-night ! " 
 
RETIREMENT 
 
 Mr. Martin awoke at five o'clock and stretched 
 himself in bed. " Funny," he said, " 'ow I keep 
 on wakin' up sanae's if I was goin' to work ! " 
 He lay still for a few moments, blinking at the 
 ceiling, and then, in the manner of one who has 
 attacked a problem and found it insoluble, mur- 
 mured, " I dunno ! 'Abit, I suppose ! " 
 
 He turned over on his side, pulled the bed- 
 clothes tightly about him, and resolutely shut his 
 eyes. He lay so for five minutes, and then, 
 kicking the clothes away, got out of bed. " No 
 good," he said ; " only makin' meself siUy tryin' 
 to sleep on ! " 
 
 He dressed himself and descending to the 
 kitchen, busied himself lighting the fire and 
 putting his house in order. He lived alone. His 
 wife had been dead for so long a time that it 
 seemed to him almost as if he had never been 
 married, and after her death, being childless, he 
 had continued to live on in the house, doing such 
 work as was necessary himself. He was a victim 
 of the work habit. He could not sit down and 
 
 SI 
 
52 RETIREMENT 
 
 be decently idle. He planned out schemes for 
 filling all the moments of his life when he was not 
 asleep. He got his wife to teach knitting to 
 him so that he might be employed at those times 
 when he had to sit still, a thing that he loathed 
 doing. 
 
 Oddly enough, he disliked work. His supreme 
 desire was for a life of slow effort and leisure ; a 
 time when he could take things easy. His 
 apparently consuming craving for work was not 
 due to his love of work, but to a desire to get 
 enough money saved to be able to retire from 
 work altogether. And so he had devoted his 
 youth to joyless, restless days and nights, abstain- 
 ing from all recreation and pleasure because, so 
 far from bringing money to him, it took money 
 from him. He had turned his wife, a quiet, 
 subdued woman, into a machine for saving 
 money. 
 
 And here was the result. He was now a man 
 of means, living in retirement. He was positively 
 a man of independent income. He could get up 
 when he liked, dally over his food as long as he 
 liked, go out or stay in, make holiday or work, 
 just as he pleased. For six months before the 
 actual date of his retirement his spirits had been 
 so buoyant that his familiars imagined he had 
 gone out of his wits. He would now and then 
 cease from working to chuckle aloud ! 
 
 When he had resigned his post his employers 
 
RETIREMENT 53 
 
 held a meeting of their workmeni and before 
 them all called him " a faithful servant." They 
 presented him with a letter of thanks, signed by 
 each member of the firm, and awarded a pension 
 to him. An account of the proceedings appeared 
 in the local paper, together with his photograph. 
 . . . Reward, indeed, for all that he had 
 done ! 
 
 Every morning since then (and that was a 
 fortnight ago) he had enjoyed the bliss of lying 
 in bed and stretching his legs, knowing that he 
 need not get up, though aU his friends were 
 hurrying sleepily towards their jobs. It aston- 
 ished him to find that ne could not lie on until 
 eight o'clock, as he had always vowed he would. 
 Each night, on retiring, he solemnly pledged 
 himself not to get up at five, and each morning 
 he broke his pledge. 
 
 " Can't 'elp it," he said to himself, by way of 
 excuse. " Of course," he went on, " it'll take 
 me some time to get used to it. Only natural 
 that, any'ow ! " 
 
 Whilst he was preparing his breakfast and 
 telling himself that it was sUly for him to do this 
 menial work — " Only fit for women ! " — ^and that 
 he must really engage a good servant, the news- 
 paper boy threw the morning journal through the 
 open door. Mr. Martin Went and picked it up. 
 " Don't 'ave to wait now to read the paper," he 
 
54 RETIREMENT 
 
 said. " It's aU right bein' able to sit down to 
 your breakfis with the paper an' take as long as 
 you like." 
 
 It was the one solid pleasure he had as yet 
 derived from his retirement, the privilege of 
 reading the day's news at leisure. He read the 
 paper, while he ate his meal, from the title on 
 the front page almost to the name of the printer 
 at the foot of the last column on the last page. 
 It was his way of asserting the fact that he could 
 do what he liked with his time. But even news- 
 papers come to an end, and when he had re- 
 luctantly discarded the journal, he busied himself 
 clearing away the remnants of his meal and 
 restoring the room to order. 
 
 " Wonder what I shall do now," he said to 
 himself, when he had done this. " Lemme see ! 
 Yesterday I went for a walk to the Square, an' 
 looked at all the shops, an' then I come 'ome 
 again ! An' the day before yesterday I walked 
 to the Square. . . . Lord bless me, I done the 
 same that day as I done yesterday ! No good 
 doin' that every day. Lemme see, now, wot'U 
 I do to-day ? " 
 
 He sat stni for a few moments — ^it was really 
 a few moments, but it seemed to him, so unused 
 was he to sitting still, to be an interminably long 
 time — ^and then got up and put on his coat and 
 hat. " I dunno," he said. " Don't seem to be 
 nowhere to go excep' the Square ! " 
 
RETIREMENT 55 
 
 He went out into the street, and walked slowly 
 towards the centre of the town. Every now and 
 then he caught himself walking quickly, and 
 stopped short. " No need to 'urry now ! " he 
 said. " Got all day to get there ! " He arrived 
 at the Square, and walked past all the shops 
 without looking into any of them. " I seen 
 them all now," he said to Mmself, and then added 
 a little querulously, " Tired of seein' 'em ! " He 
 came to the Free Library, and decided to go in. 
 " 'Taint no good, though," he murmured. " I'm 
 no 'and at readin' ! " 
 
 It was a slack time of the year, and many un- 
 employed men were in the Reading Room. The 
 newspapers were all monopolised, and so were 
 all the illustrated papers. There was nothing 
 left for Mr. Martin but the heavy quarterly 
 reviews and trade journals and things like the 
 Vegetarians' Gazette and the Theosophists' Review, 
 none of which made any appeal to him. He 
 waited patiently while a lady solidly read 
 through the Illustrated London News, and then 
 found it was a copy he had already seen. He 
 got up in disgust and went out into the Square 
 again. 
 
 " Wot a nole this place is," he said. " Ain't 
 nothink to do ! " 
 
 He hesitated for a while outside a picture 
 palace, but did not enter. " Only fit for kids an' 
 women," he said, and turned away. He walked 
 
56 RETIREMENT 
 
 on all sides of the Square again, looking into the 
 window of each shop that he passed, hoping to 
 see something of interest. At the last shop but 
 one he was rewarded : an assistant was re- 
 dressing the window, and the old man spent an 
 exhilarating half-hour watching him do it. But 
 he got tired of standing still, and so he drifted 
 out of the Square into some of the neighbouring 
 streets. In High Street he met his former 
 manager. 
 
 " Hilloa ! " exclaimed the manager, " enjoying 
 yourself, eh ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes," replied Mr. Martin. " I'm 'avin' 
 a great time, walkin' about doin' nothink ! " 
 
 " Well," the manager rejoined, " you've worked 
 hard enough for it, and you deserve a rest ! " 
 
 "That's true enough," said Mr. Martin, as 
 they separated. " I'm not sure I ain't worked 
 too 'ard ! " 
 
 He got tired Of walking about aimlessly. It 
 was too soon to return home for his midday 
 meal. He had an hour or two to get through 
 before he need do that, and it came to him 
 forcibly that he had done all the things he usually 
 did. He became a little angry about it, and 
 blamed his town for its lack of interesting things. 
 He had few friends ; he had been too busy 
 working to make friends ; he took no interest in 
 politics, because, so far as he could see, they were 
 unprofitable ; and the newspapers and magazines 
 
RETIREMENT 57 
 
 confused him. He could not sit still, and he 
 could not think. He had allowed his mind to go 
 out of training for years, and at his age it was 
 impossible to get it to run smoothly again. He 
 had spent his life in continual labour in order that 
 this time when he could dispense with labour 
 might come, and had neglected the things that 
 would make leisure worth while ; and now that 
 he had leisure, leisure was irksome to him, for 
 he did not know what to do with it. 
 
 " I'm getting sick of this 'ere," he said, 
 stumping round angrily. " Gives a chap the 
 'ump this sort of thing does ! I've a good mind 
 to go an' get a job." 
 
 The manager of his old firm came round the 
 corner as he thought this, and the old man 
 impulsively went up to him. 
 
 " Look 'ere, Mr. 'Arper," he said, " can I 
 come back to the shop to-morrow mornin' ? " 
 
 The manager looked at him in amazement. 
 
 " Come back to the shop ! " he exclaimed. 
 " Good Heavens, what do you want to do that 
 for ? " 
 
 " WeU, you see, it's like this ! I dunno wot 
 the 'ell to do with myself ! I ain't used to this 
 sort of life. I 'ave a feelin' I'll go silly if I don't 
 get somethink to do ! " 
 
 " WeU, why don't you enjoy yourself ? " 
 
 " I can't. I don't know 'ow to. You see, 
 I always bin a nard worker ! " 
 
58 RETIREMENT 
 
 " Yes, yes, that's true ! " 
 
 " An' if you could see your way ! . . . " 
 
 The manager, looking uncomfortable, cleared 
 his throat a little, and said, " You see it's difficult. 
 We've given your job to another man, and of 
 course you're not so young as you used to be, 
 are you ? " 
 
 " No, that's true enough. I'm sixty-six ! " 
 
 " We really need a young man for your work. 
 We felt that several years ago, but you were 
 such a faithful servant, we didn't like to . . . 
 You understand ! " 
 
 The old man looked at his manager in a puzzled 
 way for a few moments, and then began to under- 
 stand. 
 
 " You mean you was glad to get rid of me? " 
 he began. 
 
 " Not quite that, but . . . " 
 
 Mr. Martin turned away, for Mr. Martin felt 
 himself doing something he had never done 
 before, not even when his wife died : he was 
 crying. 
 
 " It's all right, sir," he said. " P'raps you're 
 right." 
 
 The manager, affecting jocularity, bade him 
 pull himself together, and wished him good- 
 morning. 
 
 " You just knock about and enjoy yourself," 
 he said. 
 
 " Yes, sir," said Mr. Martin, " I'll 'ave a try ! " 
 
RETIREMENT 59 
 
 He stood still for a moment, after the manager 
 had gone, wondering what he should do next. 
 
 " I think," he said, " I'll go for a walk in the 
 Square, and look at the shops ! " 
 
THE REVELATION 
 
 I FOUND him sitting on the edge of Romney 
 
 Marsh, on the side of the road from Hythe to 
 
 Dymchurch, where the shooting ranges are. He 
 
 was repairing one of his boots in an extraordinarily 
 
 complex manner : pieces of string seemed to be 
 
 the chief element in the process. It was a very 
 
 hot day ; the sky was unclouded ; and the road 
 
 from Hythe to Dymchurch is shelterless. I was 
 
 tired and overheated, so I sat down in the 
 
 shadow of the bracken beside him. He agreed 
 
 that the weather was hot, and that it was a long 
 
 time since we had had weather so hot. He 
 
 agreed also that the farmers would be in a 
 
 difficult position if the drought continued ; the 
 
 burnt-up state of the fields did not indicate great 
 
 stores of fodder. Still, it couldn't be helped, 
 
 and if it were hard on farmers, it was good for 
 
 other people. Not much good to him, though ; 
 
 tramping was not a joy on a scorching, dusty day, 
 
 particularly when your boots weren't of the best. 
 
 " Not much of a game, at any time, is it ? " 
 
 I asked, passing the cigarettes. 
 
 60 
 
THE REVELATION 6i 
 
 " Like everything else," he said, lighting up ; 
 " has its bad points as well as its good ! " 
 
 " Aimless sort of life," I suggested. 
 
 " Oh; I dunno ! Not any worse than any- 
 thing else ! " 
 
 " Surely ! " I exclaimed, in the Smilesian 
 manner, " a man gets some satisfaction out of 
 life when he feels he has done his share of the 
 world's work ! " 
 
 " P'raps," he said, non-committally, and then 
 lapsed into silence. 
 
 A small squad of soldiers, returning to barracks 
 from shooting at the targets, went by, red and 
 weary ; their tunics were open at the throat, 
 and some of them had pushed their caps back 
 on their heads so that what breeze there was 
 might cool their brows. A motor-car came 
 speedily from Hythe, throwing up clouds of dust 
 as it went by, and in its train came a light cart, 
 laden with trunks and children and a tired- 
 looking woman. 
 
 " You know," said the tramp, suddenly, " I 
 used to be respectable, and earn my living ! " 
 
 I murmured vaguely, and he proceeded. 
 
 " Twenty years I was with one firm ! " he said. 
 
 " Twenty years ! " 
 
 " Yes, ever since I left school till I gave it up ! " 
 
 " Twenty years is a long time ! It seems odd 
 you should go on the tramp after service like 
 that ! " 
 
62 THE REVELATION 
 
 " It does seem funny, doesn't it ! I often 
 wonder at myself when I think of it ! " He 
 looked quizzically at me for a moment, and then 
 said, " You know, you do do funny things now 
 and then, don't you ? " 
 
 I nodded. 
 
 " You don't know why you do it ! Can't 
 account for it, nohow. You just do it ! " 
 
 I said that I should have thought that a steady 
 man, with a record of twenty years' good service 
 in one firm, would have little difficulty in getting 
 fresh employment. 
 
 " Yes," he said, " p'raps you're right ; only 
 somehow I don't want a job ! " I shrugged my 
 shoulders. " No," he continued, quite without 
 asperity in his voice. " No, I'm not a lazy chap. 
 I was up at four this morning, and I've walked 
 from Rye ! . . . That's a good step on a day 
 like this ! No, it isn't that ! I don't think a 
 job's good enough ! " 
 
 I asked him to explain, adding some foolish- 
 ness about the dignity of labour, which I am 
 afraid amused rather than inspired him. I 
 detected that from the expression in his eyes. 
 He did not say anything to indicate that he 
 thought I was babbling nonsense. His manner 
 was quiet and gentle and courteous, as though 
 he found life so odd that he could not lose his 
 temper about it, or be boorish even to those who 
 were boorish to him. 
 
THE REVELATION ■ 63 
 
 " I used to think that," he said, simply, " and 
 p'raps it's true. Only I didn't think so the day 
 I gave it up, and I don't think so now. I don't 
 suppose I ever shall ! " 
 
 "Why did you give it up ? " I asked. 
 
 " I often wonder about that myself ! You 
 see, it was like this ! I was employed in a ware- 
 house. Went there as a lad to run errands, and 
 worked my way up to porter. I was getting 
 twenty-three bob a week, and I worked from 
 six in the morning till six at night ! " 
 
 " Pretty long hours," I admitted. 
 
 " Oh, I dunno. There's lots Worse than 
 that." 
 
 " Of course," I said, " it was a regular job, 
 and you were pretty safe, I suppose. Not like 
 those poor devils of casual labourers ! " 
 
 " That's true enough ! I often thought that 
 myself. My wife thought I was one of the lucky 
 ones ! " 
 
 " Dead, I suppose ? " 
 
 " No, not that I know of ! " 
 
 " You mean ! . . . " 
 
 " Deserted her, yes ! " 
 
 " You don't expect me to admire you, do you ?" 
 
 "No. We had four youngsters, but two of 
 them died. Consumption ! " 
 
 " And what happened to the other two ? " 
 
 " I don't know. She looked after them, 
 I s'pose. She was a good sort of woman, you 
 
64 THE REVELATION 
 
 know. I often think that. I s'pose I did wrong 
 by her ! " 
 
 " You're a pretty bad lot," I said, with some 
 disgust. 
 
 " Yes, I s'pose some people would think that. 
 P'raps I am, only somehow — ^Well, it's hard to 
 tell, isn't it ? " 
 
 I said that the matter was clear enough to me. 
 
 " Yes, I know," he said, " but you have to be 
 a thing before you can understand it properly. 
 That's what I think ! " 
 
 " But why," I said, urgently, " did you throw 
 up everything and take to this sort of life ? " 
 
 " Well, that's just what's so hard to explain. 
 You see, I'm a steady sort of chap as a rule. 
 I don't drink, or anything of that sort ! . . . 
 I can't help wondering why I did it, and I can't 
 make out why I don't go back again. That's 
 what beats me. I often think of my wife, only 
 somehow she don't seem to belong to me ! You 
 know ! It's like as if I was looking in some- 
 where, and she was inside and I was out, and . . . 
 Well, I suppose, it's how the dead thinks of the 
 living. Can't feel the same about 'em somehow, 
 as they did when they was alive. It's odd, you 
 know ! " 
 
 I saw that he was in the mood for speculation, 
 and I allowed him to ramble on without inter- 
 ruption. 
 
 " I went down to the warehouse one day just 
 
THE REVELATION 65 
 
 the same as I always did. Caught a workman's 
 tram and got there as usual. There wasn't any- 
 thing special about the day. Just an ordinary 
 day. I had my dinner in my pocket, wrapped 
 up in a bit of newspaper. I remember it just the 
 same's it was yesterday. Some bread and a 
 cold sausage, and I meant to buy a cup of cocoa 
 at a shop near the warehouse. There was a chap 
 sitting beside me in the tram, reading a paper, 
 and he said to me, ' This Smelton case is a bit 'ot, 
 isn't it ? ' and I nodded my head, and said; 
 ' Yes, it is,' and he said something else which 
 I forget, and then he got off the tram, and I 
 followed him. I don't remember rightly what 
 happened after that, but I can recollect having 
 my dinner, and saying to myself, ' Not much of 
 a meal this for a man ! ' And it wasn't, you 
 know ! Bread and cold sausage ! Of course, 
 she couldn't help it ! Probably didn't have any- 
 thing at aU herself ! . . . And then I suddenly 
 felt what a silly game it all was. ' Fancy,' says 
 I to myself, ' slogging at it like this twelve hours 
 every day for twenty-three bob a week ! ' Bread 
 and cold sausage ! Twenty years I'd been at it, 
 mind you, and that was all I was getting. And 
 no chance of getting any more. That was what 
 knocked me over ! I might go on working 
 another twenty years and be no better off at the 
 end of them than I was then. No prospects ! 
 Every day the same ! Six to six ! Twenty- 
 
66 THE REVELATION 
 
 thre,e bob a week. Bread and cold sausage. 
 * God,' said I, ' what a life ! . . . ' And then 
 I just gave up ! I went and drew my money — 
 it was pay-day — ^and I cleared off. I sent half 
 of it to her, and said I wasn't coming back again. 
 / was fed up ! " 
 
 He got up from the grass and collected his 
 goods. 
 
 " And that's how it was," he said, standing in 
 front of me, and looking like one who seeks for 
 explanations of things which cannot be explained. 
 " It just came over me like that, and I can't 
 make it out, and I don't suppose I ever shall. 
 It's funny, you know, that's what it is ; but 
 funny things do happen sometimes." 
 
THE FOOL 
 
 The Englishman came up the old, ascending 
 road that leads from Ballyshannon to the town- 
 lands of Rossnowlagh and Belalt, and where it 
 reaches its height and begins to dip again, he 
 paused for a while before a gap in the hedge to 
 look down on the sea that lay before him like a 
 great shining thing. To his right was Donegal 
 Bay, and in the heart of it was the bright splash 
 of white light that sailors call " the silver streak " ; 
 to his left was the salmon leap fronting Bally- 
 shannon, and beyond that, distant and misty; 
 the black hills of Sligo pierced the clouds and 
 were lost. Below him, sitting on the earth, was 
 John O'Moyle. 
 
 " Good morning, Pat ! " exclaimed the English- 
 man. 
 
 " Me name's not Pat," replied O'Moyle ; " it's 
 John O'Moyle, o' the town o' Ballyshannon since 
 ivir A wus born ! " 
 
 The Englishman smiled. " I thought all you 
 fellows were called Pat ! " he said. 
 
 " Aw, indade, there's manny in the wurl' like 
 6; 
 
68 THE FOOL 
 
 you, God help ye ! " It was plain that the man 
 was out of his wits, so the English tourist for- 
 bore to be angry. " It's a brave sort o' a day ! " 
 continued O'Moyle. 
 
 " Very fine, indeed — very fine ! " 
 
 " It's like the shinin' hosts o' heaven, the 
 day ! Wi' the sun shinin' on the watter, an' 
 all ! " 
 
 " Yes, yes ! ... " 
 
 " D'ye see thon white light on the sea ? " said 
 the witless man, pointing to the silver streak on 
 Donegal Bay. The Englishman nodded. " It's 
 the ladder that the angels come down thrum 
 Heaven on t' Jacob that wus slapin' at the fut o' 
 it wondherin' how much he'd be gettin' at the 
 market fur Laban's sheep ! " 
 
 " That's a quaint fancy ! . . . " 
 
 "Eh! It's no fancy, but the God's truth! 
 Are ye goin' far ? " 
 
 The Englishman explained that he was walking 
 over to Rossnowlagh, that he proposed to lunch 
 there, and then walk on to the town of Donegal. 
 Nine Irish miles it was, he understood, from 
 Rossnowlagh to Donegal. 
 
 " It is that, iv'ry inch o' it ! Sure, it's the 
 long walk, but tne railway runs there, an' if 
 ye've anny money ye can travel be train. Mebbe 
 ye're a traveller ? " 
 
 " I prefer to walk," said the Englishman, 
 ignoring the inquiry concerning his occupation. 
 
THE FOOL 69 
 
 " It's a quare thing t' want t' be walkin' whin 
 ye have the money t' ride ! Ye 're not doin' it 
 fur fun, are ye ? " 
 
 " That's just what I am doing it for ! " and 
 the Englishman laughed. 
 
 " Well, A declare ! Ye 're an Englishman, 
 aren't ye ? " 
 
 " I am," said the traveller, with quiet pride. 
 
 " Ay, A thought as much ! " 
 
 The Englishman looked about him, observing 
 the ill-condition of the fields. "It's a poor sort 
 of a country this, isn't it ? " he said. 
 
 " Aw, it cud be worse, an' it cud be better. 
 God made it, an' ye can't grum'le ! There's 
 better Ian' on the road t' Donegal, but sure the 
 Prodesans has it all. The like o' Ian' like that 
 is all that Cathliks can git ! " 
 
 " WeU, now," said the Englishman, " don't 
 you think that that's a strange thing ? The 
 Protestants are prosperous and the Catholics 
 aren't!" 
 
 "It's not strange at all. If ye wur a Cathlik 
 an' yer great-gran 'father wus hanged fur a rebel, 
 an' his brother that wus a holy priest wus shot 
 dead be sodgers in a glen fur sayin' a mass, an' 
 ye wur driven thrum wan place till another an' 
 the Ian' that wus in yer fam'ly thrum the time 
 o' Red Hugh O'Neill wus tuk thrum ye by a 
 damned oul' scoundrel called Crumwill an' give 
 till strangers thrum over the sea, wud ye be 
 
70 THE FOOL 
 
 much better aff nor us, Prodesan or no 
 Prodesan ? " 
 
 " Oh, of course ! " exclaimed the English- 
 man. " Historical reasons, and so forth, no 
 doubt ! But — of course, I don't want to hurt 
 your feelings — ^you quite understand ! — ^but really 
 you know, the Catholics in Ireland are a shiftless 
 lot. I've been here a week now ! . . . " 
 
 " It's a long time whin ye come t' think o' it ! " 
 
 " I don't pretend to have formed an expert 
 opinion on the subject, but so many men in 
 Ireland seem to lounge through life. They've 
 no energy, no go, no hustle in them ! You, for 
 instance, what is a fine, healthy-looking fellow 
 like you doing lounging about in a field like this ? 
 Isn't there any work you can do ? " 
 
 John O'Moyle, being a half-wit, stood up in 
 the field and gazed at the Englishman standing 
 above him in the break in the hedge. " What 
 would I be workin' fur ? " he demanded. 
 
 " Every man ought to work ! It's — it's only 
 decent. Besides, people are happier that work ! " 
 
 O'Moyle climbed up the earth bank, and stood 
 beside the Englishman. " Do you see thon wee 
 man wi' the black hair in the fiel' ayont ? " he 
 said, pointing to where a peasant was spraying 
 potatoes — a. fraU, hairy man, with a tank con- 
 taining disinfectant strapped to his back. The 
 Englishman nodded. 
 
 " Thon's Jimmy M'Givern ! " continued John 
 
THE FOOL 71 
 
 O'Moyle. " Thon's his fid'. He got it in the 
 Lan' Purchase ! He has a bit more, too. He's 
 a man o' propirty, is Jimmy M'Givern ! He 
 works hard, very hard ! He's up at five an' 
 sometimes earlier iv'ry day, an' he works thrum 
 the dawn o' day t' the dark o' night, an' hardly 
 ivir staps. Ay, he's a hard worker is Jimmy 
 M'Givern i Workin', workin' all the time, 
 bendin' over purties, an' mebbe whin he's not 
 lukkin' the blight comes in aft the sea wan night 
 an' destroys the crap entirely ! " 
 
 " Ah, but there's the thriU of working his own 
 land ! It's his own, you say — ^he got it from 
 the Land Purchase Commissioners ! " 
 
 " Ay, it'll be his if he lives long enough. At 
 the end of seventy-two years, when he's paid 
 af£ the instalments, it'U be his ! " John was 
 silent for a moment. He stood watching the 
 bent figure as it went up and down the rows of 
 potatoes, spraying them lest the blight should 
 get at them and turn them black while he slept. 
 Then he laughed. " Mebbe ye 're right, sir ! " he 
 added. " But A'm thinking A'd rather be a 
 fool nor be Jimmy M'Givern ! A git up whin 
 A like, an' A beg a crust o' bread fur the love o' 
 God, an' a sup o' drink ! An' A come out an' 
 luk at the sea, wi' the sun in me face an' the 
 win' blowin' in me hair ! . . . " 
 
 The Englishman moved on. He began to fear 
 that he would be late for luncheon. He nodded 
 
72 THE FOOL 
 
 to John and passed on. Where the road bends 
 slightly there is a cottage, and he stopped to 
 ask for a drink of water. An old Woman gave 
 him to drink. Looking up the road he saw John 
 O'Moyle standing regarding the figure of Jimmy 
 M'Givern. He thanked the old woman, and 
 pointing to John, said, " He's a queer sort of 
 chap, isn't he ? " 
 
 " Is it John O'Moyle ye mane ? " she replied. 
 " Aw, sure, ye needen bother yer head about 
 him ! He's astray in his mind, God help him ! " 
 
CRISIS 
 
 Mr. 'Enry Martin walked smartly up the 
 Walworth Road in the manner befitting a man 
 who has not long been married and who is eager 
 to get home to his wife on a fine Saturday after- 
 noon. He imagined to hiinself a meal with 
 Aggie, a little smoke, and then a stroll up the 
 Camberwell Road to Ruskin Park, and a lazy 
 lounge during the afternoon, watching the boys 
 at cricket or the stupid old gentlemen playing 
 bowls, a game which seemed to Mr. 'Enry Martin 
 to be profoundly silly. He was prepared to 
 admit, if pressed on the point, that no doubt it 
 suited some people, and that, as likely as not, 
 they enjoyed it ; but he thought it was a poor 
 game, fit only for females and fat old men. 
 Nevertheless, he liked to sit and look at the 
 players as they rolled the bowls over the well- 
 cut grass. Aggie liked the tennis-players best 
 of all, her affection for them being derived from 
 the novelettes ; it appeared that all the Really 
 Nice People played tennis with great grace. 
 Such was the afternoon that Mr. 'Enry Martin 
 
 73 
 
74 CRISIS 
 
 anticipated for himself and his wife. Such had 
 been the Saturday afternoons, on the whole, that 
 they had spent together since their marriage. . . . 
 
 If it was an eager, pleased 'Enry Martin that 
 went into No. 5 Jordan Grove on that warm day, 
 it was a puzzled, vaguely angry 'Enry Martin 
 that came out again later on ; not only was it 
 a puzzled 'Enry Martin that came out of the 
 house, but it was a lonely 'Enry Martin, for 
 Aggie, for the first time for six months, remained 
 behind. He walked slowly up the Grove towards 
 the main road, looking very much like a man 
 who has been violently punched on the head, 
 but is unable to say why he has been punched, 
 or by whom. Where the Grove joins the Wal- 
 worth Road he met George HaUiday, whom 
 every one calls Ole George, for no particular 
 reason. 
 
 " 'lUoa, 'Enry ! " exclaimed Ole George, as 
 he came up to 'Enry, and 'Enry moodily replied, 
 " 'loa ! " 
 
 " Nah, nah ! " said Ole George, " down't look 
 so bloomin' merry, ole chap ! I can't stand it, 
 reely, I can't ! It 'urts me to laugh ! . . . " 
 
 " Ow, chuck it, for 'eaven's sike ! " was all 
 that 'Enry replied to Ole George's flow of sarcasm. 
 
 " Bit upset, ain't you ? " inquired Ole George. 
 
 " So'd you be if you was me ! " 
 
 " Ow ! 'Ow's that ? " 
 
 " Down't knaow wot's the matter with Aggie ! 
 
CRISIS 75 
 
 Fair snapped the 'ead oft me, she did. Never 
 seen her like it before. 'Ope she ain't goin' to 
 be like it alwis ! " 
 
 " W'y, wot's the matter ? " 
 
 " I down't knaow ! As soon as I got in, 
 I could see somethink was wrong. Cryin' she 
 was, an' didden knaow wot she was cryin' for. 
 ' Wot's up, ole girl ! ' ses I. ' Nothink,' ses she. 
 ' Ow,' ses I, like that, ' well, I shouldn't mike so 
 much fuss abaht it if I was you ! ' ' Wouldn't 
 you ? ' ses she. ' Naow,* ses I, ' I wouldn't ! ' 
 An' then I ses, ' Wot's for dinner ? ' ' 'Ash ! ' 
 ses she. " 'Ash ! '-^es I, ' I 'ate 'ash !' ' It's all 
 you'll git,' ses she, 'an' chance it ! ' The place 
 didden look the same, some'ow. Clean enough, 
 you knaow, on'y it didden look as if 'er 'eart was 
 in it. You knaow ! " 
 
 Ole George nodded sagely, and 'Enry continued 
 his tale of woe. 
 
 " Never said a word, she didden, w'Ue we was 
 'avin it, neither, but kept on lookin' misable ! 
 You knaow ! 'Umpified ! ' Comin' out,' ses I, 
 w'en we'd cleared awy the dishes. ' Naow,' she 
 ses, short-like. ' Ow, awright,' ses I, ' be nasty 
 abaht it, on'y don't sy I didden ast ye ! ' 
 ' Down't wanna gow aht,' ses she. An' then 
 I fair lost me temper, an' talked strite til her. 
 ' Look 'ere,' I ses, ' wot's the little gime, eih ? 
 Wod you gettin' at, eih ? ' An' so 'elp me, she 
 started cryin' as 'ard as she could, an' that fair 
 
76 CRISIS 
 
 unnerved me, an' I put me arms roun' 'er, an' 
 I ses, ' Look 'ere, ole girl, wot's up any'ow ? 
 Anyone bin annoyin' of you ? ' She started to 
 blubber worse 'n ever, an' 'ung on til me, an' kep' 
 on sayin' she didden mean no 'arm, an' she'd be 
 awright bymeby, an' she didden knaow wot was 
 up with 'er. ' Tired-like,' she ses. ' I'll lie down 
 for 'alf-a-nour, an' then I be awright ! You go 
 on aht an' let me be quiet,' she ses. An' 'ere 
 I am. Rummy go, I call it ! " 
 
 Ole George took him by the arm and led him 
 into the "Sir William Walworth." He de- 
 manded that the young person behind the bar 
 should supply him and his friend with two glasses 
 of beer, and quick abaht it, see ! 
 
 " You knaow," he said, when they had taken 
 their first drink of the beer, and had solemnly 
 said, " 'Ere's lookin' ifo-wards you!"; "you 
 knaow, you oughta be in a Nome, you ought ! " 
 
 " 'Ow du mean ? " exclaimed 'Enry. 
 
 " 'Ow do I mean ! Ain't you got no bloomin' 
 gumption ? " He leant over and tapped 'Enry 
 on the shoulder. " Cheps like you," he con- 
 tinued, " oughtn't t' be allowed t' git married ! 
 Down't knaow nothink ! " 
 
 'Enry gazed at Ole George indignantly. 
 " Strikes me," he said, " as 'ow you got 
 somethink wrong with you, too. Talkin' 
 like that ter a chap ! Wod you mean by it, 
 eih ? " 
 
CRISIS 77 
 
 " Ain't you got no understandin' ? Ain't you 
 never 'eard of nothink ? " 
 
 " 'Eard of wot ? " 
 
 Ole George became so sarcastic that he could 
 scarcely contain imself. " 'Eard of wot ! " 
 he mimicked 'Enry. " W'y wot the 'ole bloomin' 
 world 'as 'eard of, exceptin' you ! " 
 
 'Enry still looked blankly in front of him. 
 " I dunno wot you're drivin' at," he said. " Off 
 your 'ead wot I can see of it ! " 
 
 Ole George implored him to say where he had 
 been born and brought up, and ended by assuring 
 him that the 'eathen in 'is blindness knew more 
 about things than 'Enry apparently did. 
 
 " Well, wot's it all abaht, then ! " said 'Enry 
 impatiently. " It ain't my fault I down't 
 knaow nothink. W'y down't you tell me wot 
 it is, 'stead o' callin' me aht me nime ! " 
 
 Ole George called for two more beers, and 
 quick about it too, miss, or you'll 'ear more'n 
 you'll like, see ! And, when he was served, he 
 leant over and said, in a very solemn whisper, 
 " 'Enry, my boy, it's my belief as 'ow you're goin' 
 ter do your dooty by the Stite ! " 
 
 " 'Ow du mean ? " 
 
 " Nah, look 'ere, 'Enry, wot does doin' your 
 dooty be the Stite mean ? Wot's eddication for 
 if you down't knaow thet, yet ? You're going 
 ter be a nappy fawther, my boy, thet's wot 
 you're goin' to be. Absolute ! " 
 
78 CRISIS 
 
 " Wot ! " 
 
 " A nappy fawther, my boy ! " 
 
 'Enry stood up straight, and caught hold of 
 Ole Greorge by the coat. " Wod you sy ? " he 
 repeated vacantly. 
 
 " Wot I 'ave said, I 'ave said," replied Ole 
 George. " You didden ought t' be allowed t' 
 be one be rights, not a chep thet down't knaow 
 nothink didden ! " 
 
 " So 'elp me ! " exclaimed 'Enry. 
 
 " Bit of a oner, ain't it, eih ? " 
 
 " Fency me ! . . . Look 'ere, George, it's all 
 right, ain't it ? No 'ank, I mean ! " 
 
 " 'Ank ! " said Ole George. Of course it ain't 
 'ank. W'en you're my age, my boy, you'll 
 knaow it ain't a subject you can 'ank abaht ! " 
 
 " I can't 'ardly realise it ! ... Of course, 
 I knoo somethink 'ud 'appen somedy, but I 
 never thought abaht it rightly. You knaow ! " 
 Ole George nodded sympathetically. " Absolute 
 knock-aht, it is," continued 'Enry. " Mikes you 
 think, it do. Fair pulls you up. So 'elp me ! " 
 He gazed at the beer in an abstracted fashion, 
 and then raised the glass to his lips, but set it 
 down again without drinking. " I better be 
 gettin' 'ome," he said, " an' see after 'er ! " 
 
 " She be awright," replied Ole George. " Much 
 better leave 'er alone. They likes t' be quiet 
 at first. Funny things, women ! " 
 
 " Wot I can't git owver is me bein' a fawther, 
 
CRISIS 79 
 
 y' knaow ! Mikes ye feel funny, down't it ? Of 
 course, you're used to it, nah ! . . . " 
 
 " Never git used t' it," declared Ole George. 
 " We've 'ad six, an' the last knocked me all of 
 a neap jus* as much as the first. Never git 
 used ter thet, you down't ! " 
 
 They finished the beer in silence, and then 
 rose and went out of the public-house, and 
 walked in the direction of home. There was a 
 great noisy crowd in the street, and the harsh 
 voices of the costermongers, crying their wares, 
 came floating through the air. A blind man 
 monotonously cried for pity on his condition, 
 and an old woman turned the handle of a dismal 
 barrel-organ. The street was hot, and reeking 
 with the smeU of overcrowded humans. All the 
 noise of the world seemed concentrated in that 
 one street. " Goo' God ! " 'Enry murmured to 
 himself, his temples throbbing. " W'y cahn't 
 they shut their sDly rah ! " 
 
 " You be awright ! " said Ole George. 
 
 " Didden ought to 'ave said wot I did to 'er ! " 
 
 " She'll forget abaht it awright ! . . . " 
 
 They went through the crowd as though it 
 were not there. 
 
 " Goo-night, ole man ! " said Ole George, as 
 they separated. 
 
 " Goo '-night, George ! " was 'Enry's reply. 
 
 " She be awright presently," Ole George 
 assured him, and left him. 
 
8o CRISIS 
 
 He walked down the street like a man dazed. 
 " Absolute knock-aht," he said, and then added, 
 " So 'elp me ! " He stood about the door of the 
 house for a few minutes as if he were afraid to 
 enter. " Upsets a chep, this sort o' thing ! " 
 he muttered as he entered the house. " You 
 awright Aggie ? " he said, softly, and she said 
 that she was a little better. 
 
 " Like a cup o' tea ? " he asked, preparing to 
 lay the table. 
 
 " Thenk you, 'Enery." 
 
 He bustled about the room, preparing for the 
 meal. " I tell you wot," he said. " You better 
 stop in bed ter-morrer, an' I'll mike the break- 
 fast ! You see if I don't ! I'm sorry I was 
 nasty t' you t'-dy ! " 
 
 She smiled at him, and assured him that it 
 was all right. " You weren't reely nasty," she 
 said, " it was me ! . . . " 
 
 " Ow, naow, it weren't ! . . . See 'ere, Aggie, 
 I tell you wot. We'll 'ave 'ash ter-morrer for 
 dinner if you like, eih ? Or anythink you like, 
 on'y down't you put yourself aht, see 1 I do 
 thet awright. You lie stUl an' have a rest." 
 He came close to her, and put his arms about 
 her, and pressed her closely to him. " So 'elp 
 me, Aggie," he said, " I'm sorry I jawred you, 
 I am, strite ! " 
 
 "It's awright, 'Enry," she replied. "You 
 didden mean no 'arm ! " 
 
THE MATCH 
 
 Michael Halloran sat on a bank where the 
 road bends round Sheegus Height. 
 
 " Aw, now," said he, " but it's the sorraful 
 wurl' when a fine young fella like meself has to 
 lave his country an' go til a strange Ian' fur to 
 earn a livin' ! " 
 
 " It is that," replied Conn Maguire. 
 
 " An' me willin' an' able til work, an' not a 
 ban's turn can I git til do. It's not right ! " 
 
 " It is not." 
 
 The old man looked at the young man swiftly, 
 and then turned away and looked out over the 
 sea to where the Sligo mountains rise black and 
 mistily to the sky. 
 
 " You wum't wantin' to be goin', I'd be 
 thinkin' ? " he suggested. 
 
 " It's not me that 'ud go, if I cud help it. But 
 sure, there's nathin' fur me here. I've no Ian' 
 or nathin'." 
 
 " An' what wud ye do fur a bit o' Ian', Michael 
 Halloran ? " 
 
 " Sure, I'd run thrum here tH Barnes Gap on 
 
 8i F 
 
82 THE MATCH 
 
 me ban's an' knees widhout stappin', I'd be that 
 eager til get it !" 
 
 The old man turned and looked at Michael as 
 he spoke. " Wud ye marry me daughter Ellen ? " 
 he demanded. 
 
 Michael looked up at him in astonishment, and 
 then laughed boisterously. 
 
 " Is it makin' fun o' me ye are ? " he said. 
 
 " I am not," replied Conn. 
 
 Michael rose to his feet and crossed to the old 
 man's side. " It's a quare wurl'," he said, " an' 
 the quare people in it ! " 
 
 " A'U not be stingy," said Conn. 
 
 " Ye'd need not to be. Sure, yer daughter's 
 no catch. Conn Maguire. She is not in 
 sowl ! " 
 
 " A'U give three cows til the man that marries 
 her." 
 
 " They'd be well earned ! " 
 
 " Will ye take her if A give ye three cows wi' 
 her ? " 
 
 ' ' Aw, the CO ws are all right . It 's the wumman ! 
 She's oulder nor I am, an' she has the quare bad 
 temper on her." 
 
 Conn made a gesture of contempt. " Och," 
 said he, " wud a fine young fella like yerself let a 
 wumman put him out ? You're the lad cud 
 control her well. Wuddn't ye give her a clout 
 on the ear if she was imperent ? " 
 
 " Aw, she's brave and handy wi' her fists her- 
 
THE MATCH 83 
 
 self. A saw her knock John Tanner flat on his 
 back wance wi' wan blow. She's strong ! . . ." 
 " An' if she is, sure she's all the better able to 
 help a nian wi' a bit o' Ian'. It's the fine worker 
 she is, an' the quare han' wi' cows. There's none 
 o' yer fine wimmen thrum the towns that cud 
 houl' a candle to her wi' cows." 
 
 Michael shifted about a little, and then stooped 
 and picked up a stone, which he flung carelessly 
 at nothing in particular. " If a feUa had three 
 cows," he said, " he'd want a bit o' Ian' til graze 
 them on." 
 
 " Mebbe," replied Conn, " he cud sell wan 0' 
 the cows an' get a bit o' Ian' out o' the Lan' 
 Purchase." 
 
 Michael smUed cunningly. " Naw," he said, 
 "he'd want til have three cows — ^he wudden want 
 til sell any o' them for a while anyway. It's a 
 bit o' lan' he'd be wantin' as well as three cows." 
 
 " Mebbe he cud borry a bit o' lan' at a low 
 rent. Mebbe," went on Conn, " I'd be wiUin' 
 til let him have the lend o' me medda beyant 
 Harrison's farm fur a while." 
 
 Michael shook his head. " He'd be wantin' the 
 lan' fur himself," he said, " an' wudden want til 
 be beholdin' til no wan." 
 
 Conn moralised. " It's not well for a young 
 fella til be full o' pride," he said. 
 
 " Cows must have grass," replied Michael, 
 " an' ye can't have grass if ye haven't got lan'. 
 
84 THE MATCH 
 
 Yer daughter's no match be herself fur the like 
 o' me." 
 
 They stood for a little while without speaking, 
 the young man flicking the grass with his foot, 
 the old man looking out over the sea and calcu- 
 lating in his mind how best to secure a husband 
 for his daughter at a small price. 
 
 " Ye 're very hard," he said in a tone which 
 was intended to flatter the young man on his 
 possession of a keen sense of business. 
 
 " A'm not hard," replied Michael, not dis- 
 pleased, " but ye'd need tU git up brave an' early 
 in the mornin' til git the better o' me." 
 
 " A'll give ye the three cows an' ye can graze 
 them on the medda fur a year fur nathin'. . . ." 
 
 " A wudden take her at the price ! " 
 
 The old man turned to go up the road as though 
 all the bargaining were at an end. " Aw, well," 
 he said, " A can't do better nor that, an' if ye 
 don't like me terms ye '11 have til go to America." 
 He moved away a little. " It'll be a quare pity 
 fur a fine young fella like you to have to go to a 
 foreign Ian' when there's a chance fur ye in yer 
 own country." 
 
 " That's what A'm thinkin' meself." 
 
 " An' the chance when A'm dead o' steppin' 
 intU me place." 
 
 "[Sure, ye'll live a long time. Conn. Ye're a 
 long-lived family. Yer ould mother's not dead 
 yet, let alone you." 
 
THE MATCH 85 
 
 " Aw, ye nivir know ! " 
 
 " Naw, ye don't, an' ye , shudden take no 
 chances." 
 
 " A'U make me will the morra mornin', lavin' 
 ivrything til you an' Ellen." 
 
 " Ye cud make another wan the day after." 
 
 " Aw, A wudden do that." 
 
 Michael kicked the life out of a dandelion. 
 " Conn Maguire," said he emphatically, "if ye 
 want til marry yer daughter til as fine a young 
 fella as there is in this or anny other townlan' in 
 the county Donegal, ye '11 have to give me the 
 three cows an' the medda beyant Harrison's 
 farm. A cuddn't marry her fur less. God knows 
 she's the sore Wumman til look at, an' the temper 
 o' her is enough til drive a man til the asylum. 
 A'U be goin' til the shippin' agent's at Bally- 
 shannon the morra mornin' til make arrange- 
 ments fur me passage til America, an' A'd like 
 til know now what yer intentions are. A wun't 
 take her fur less." 
 
 " Ye '11 be sure an' have her ? Ye wun't back 
 out of it ? " 
 
 " Aw, A'U take her aU right. Sure, wan 
 wumman 's as good as another if it comes to that, 
 ail' a wumman wi' cattle an' Ian' is better nor 
 one wi' nathin' ! " 
 
 " Ye 're a hard man," sighed Conn, " but A'U 
 do what ye want. WUl ye come wi' me now an' 
 see Ellen ? " 
 
86 THE MATCH 
 
 " Aw, sure there's time enough fur that." 
 
 " Mebbe, she'd like ye to come and see her. 
 Ye nivir know wi' wimmen ! " 
 
 " Man, ye must be quare an' anxious til git 
 rid o' her," said Michael. 
 
 " Aw, indade, A'm not," replied Conn hurriedly. 
 " Aw, no, A'm not. It wus herself made the 
 suggestion. She wanted a man, she said, fur 
 she's tired o' bein' an ould maid an' seein' all the 
 young girls o' the place married aff an' no wan 
 comin' anear her til ax her til do the same. 
 ' There's young Michael Halloran,' ses she, ' that 
 hasn't got much wit, God help him, but's a fine 
 strappin' young fella ! . . . It's aff til America 
 he'll be soon if ye don't stap him. Affer him the 
 three cows,' she said, ' an' he'll have me, the same 
 young fella.' That wus what she said herself. 
 It's not wantin' tU git rid o' her that A am, but 
 it's herself 's wantin' til be married, an' God knows 
 that's nacherl enough fur a wumman." 
 
 " Mebbe it is," said Michael. 
 
 " Ye'd better come an' see her," urged Conn, 
 
 " Aw, A'll not come now. Sure, there's no 
 hurry. A want tU have a bit o' dandher tU 
 meself. Tell her A'll come roun' the night an' 
 coort her." 
 
DERELICTS 
 
 A MAID came to the door and blew a cab whistle 
 sharply ; and Ole George whipped up his horse 
 and started off. 
 
 " Ain't no good you goin' ! " said the crossing- 
 sweeper. " She on'y blew once. It's a taxi she 
 wants." 
 
 " I s'pose I can 'eng about if I like, funny ! " 
 retorted Ole George. 
 
 The crossing-sweeper shook his head. " Not 
 much good doin' that," he said. " A taxi's sure 
 to come up. On'y make you bad-tempered again, 
 you know." 
 
 Ole George drove off to " 'eng " about in the 
 hope that, should a taxi-cab not turn up soon, the 
 would-be passenger would tire of waiting and 
 would hire his " growler." " No 'arm in tryin', 
 is there ? " he exclaimed, as the dilapidated horse 
 made an effort to canter. Before he had reached 
 the end of the street a taxi-cab, smart and clean, 
 came quickly round the corner and took up the 
 man and woman waiting on the steps of the house 
 where the maid had blown the whistle. Ole 
 
 87 
 
88 DERELICTS 
 
 George pulled up sharply, with a sick look on his 
 face. " Blast you ! " he said to the driver as the 
 taxi-cab went by. 
 
 " Go 'ome an' die ! " was the reply he received. 
 
 " I tole you wot would 'appen," said the cross- 
 ing-sweeper when Ole George returned to the 
 stand. " It ain't no good you goin' . . ." 
 
 " I don't want no good advice, if you please. 
 Not froni you nor no one else ! " 
 
 " Well, I was on'y saying' . . ." 
 
 " Don't want to 'ear wot you was on'y sayin' ! 
 Sick o' 'earin' wot you was on'y sayin' ! You 
 get on wi' your crossin' an' leave me t' look after 
 me own affairs ! See ? " 
 
 The old man dragged his broom towards the 
 crossing. " Ain't much good my touchin' it," 
 he said sadly. " These 'ere streets don't need 
 much cleanin'. Too well made, they are. This 
 job ain't 'alf wot it was ! " 
 
 Ole George snorted sympathetically. " No job 
 is, from wot I can see of it. Too much bloomin' 
 progress t' please me ! " 
 
 " Of course things is always goin' on, ain't 
 they, George ? " 
 
 " Goin' on ! " Ole George's face was wrinkled 
 in disgust. " Wot's the good o' things goin' on 
 if people gets left be'ind, eh ? Awnswer me that, 
 will you ? " 
 
 The crossing-sweeper wagged his head sagely. 
 " Wot I'd like to know," he said, " is where this 
 
DERELICTS 89 
 
 progress is goin' to stop. That's Wot I'd like to 
 know." He waited for a reply* but Ole George 
 made no response. " Mind you," he continued, 
 " I'm all for progress myself. I don't believe in 
 gettin' rusty. . . . On'y wot I Want to know is; 
 w'ere's it goin' to stop ? " 
 
 " Sime 'ere, old un," said Ole George; getting 
 of£ the box-seat. "I don't earn me keep nah on 
 a keb ! Strite, I don't ! Wot's the good o' 
 progress t' me ? Oughta be a lor against 
 it!" 
 
 " O' course," said the crossing-sweeper, " these 
 'ere taxis do git about quickly, an' that ole 'orse 
 of yourn . . ." 
 
 " 'Ere, down't sy nothink about the 'orse ! 
 It ain't 'is fault any more'n it's yours or mine. 
 See ? Dessay, if he could talk, he could say a 
 few things about us. We ain't much t' speak of, 
 are we, eh ? " 
 
 The crossing-sweeper was a mild-looking old 
 man, with dim blue eyes and a short white beard 
 trimmed in the traditional manner of a sailor's 
 beard. One leg was a little shorter than the 
 other, so that he limped. 
 
 " You're too bloomin' meek, you are ! " Ole 
 George shouted to him. " That's wot's the matter 
 wi' you. Take things lyin' down, you do. Git 
 your livin' took away, an' say ' Thank ye ' for it. 
 Mike me sick, people like you do ! " 
 
 " You ain't any better off for all your cursin' 
 
90 DERELICTS 
 
 an' swearin', are you ? I've always been one for 
 keepin' meself respectable. . . ." 
 
 Ole George kicked nothing with great violence. 
 " Wot's the good o' bein' respectable if you ain't 
 got no money, eh ? Awnswer me that, will 
 you ? " The crossing-sweeper did not appear to 
 be able to answer him that, so he devoted himself 
 to sweeping the crossing with great vigour. " I 
 tell you wot," continued Ole George. " We ain't 
 clever, that's wot's the matter wi' us ! Don't 
 need us no more. See ? Git out o' it ! That's 
 wot they sy to you after they've used you up, an' 
 you can't do no more. Git out o' it ! So 'elp 
 me, wot a world ! " 
 
 " No good complainin'. . . ." 
 
 " Give you the 'ump, things do ! " 
 
 An old gentleman with two children passed 
 over the crossing, and when they had done so 
 the old gentleman handed a copper to each of the 
 children so that they might give them to the 
 crossing-sweeper . 
 
 " Oh, thank you, sir ! " exclaimed the crossing- 
 sweeper ; and they passed on. 
 
 " Go on," said Ole George, " show your 
 bloomin' gratitood for tuppence ! " 
 
 " The first I've 'ad to-day. . . ." 
 
 " Bit o' fat for you, eh ? " 
 
 A whistle came from a block of flats. " There 
 you are," he said, " another taxi ! Down't 
 nobody want a four-wheeler to-dy ? " 
 
DERELICTS 91 
 
 The maid blew her whistle at regular intervals, 
 but no taxi-cab came. 
 
 " You better go an' 'eng about," suggested the 
 crossing-sweeper. " Taxis down't seem t' be in 
 a nurry to come up." 
 
 " Naow," exclaimed Ole George, " I wown't 
 go. Let 'er blow 'er bloomin' inside out if she 
 likes ! " 
 
 " You didden ought t' talk like that, you 
 know. . . ." 
 
 " 'Ow ought I to talk, then ? Gow up there 
 an' be turned off, an' sy, ' Ow, thank you, sir ! ' 
 Eih ? " 
 
 " You down't do no good by bein' abusive." 
 
 The whistle blew monotonously, but still no 
 taxi came. 
 
 " 'Ark at 'er ! 'Ope she likes the toon ! " 
 
 " It ain't 'er fault." 
 
 " It ain't no one's fault ! " 
 
 There was a pause in the whistling, and then 
 came sharply three calls. Ole George jumped at 
 the cab. 
 
 " So 'elp me," he shouted, as he drove off, " I 
 got a job at last ! " 
 
ADVENTURE 
 
 He climbed to the top of the tram-car, and sat 
 down on the back seat. There was a certain 
 grimness in his look, such as one sees on the face 
 of a man who has made up his mind to do some 
 work that is likely to be unpleasant. 
 
 " I shall go in," he said to himself, compressing 
 his lips, " and if he says anything to me about it, 
 I shall tell him straight out that I took a day off 
 because I wanted to. See if I don't ! That's 
 what I'll tell him ! I shan't lie about it ! " 
 
 He reflected on the miserable spirit that would 
 be shown by the other chaps were they in his 
 situation. Morrison would be sure to snivel and 
 say : " Please, sir, I've had a domestic bereave- 
 ment ! " and Green would stutter with nervous- 
 ness, and say that he had had a bad headache, or 
 that his wife had had another, and that he hoped 
 they would overlook it this once. . . . Snivellers ! 
 None of that for him ! He was human same's 
 they were ! He had impulses same's they had. 
 ... He remembered to have read somewhere 
 that William Sharp once stayed away from the 
 
 92 
 
ADVENTURE 93 
 
 bank in which he was employed, and when asked 
 for an explanation had said : "I went into the 
 country to hear the cuckoo call ! " Something 
 like a man, he was. , . . 
 
 It was not as if he had ever done anything 
 before. He hadn't ; but all the same he was 
 human same's they were, and it was not human 
 to go and Work in a stuffy shop on a fine morning 
 like yesterday was. What a fine day it had been ! 
 The air was clean and clear even at Chalk Farm, 
 and the trees were covered with young, green 
 leaves, and the sparrows were making a devil of a 
 jolly noise. . . . Well, could anyone blame him 
 for turning away from the Holborn emporium to 
 seek the joyfulness of Hampstead Heath ? Could 
 they, now ? Of course they couldn't ! Not if 
 they was human same's as he was ! If Toft, the 
 shopwalker, beast that he was, said anything to 
 him, he'd jolly well say something to Toft. Toft 
 wasn't everybody, though he might think he was. 
 Of course, they might sack him. , . . Well, 
 what if they did ? He was human same's they 
 were, and if they chose to sack a chap for being 
 human — ^well, that just showed the sort of firm 
 they were. He could get employment elsewhere. 
 
 Anyhow, yesterday was worth the risk of the 
 sack. Jolly fine it had been. Of course, he 
 couldn't explain why it was that he had gone to 
 the Heath instead of to the shop. Must have been 
 impulse. Just impulse. That was it. Impulse ! 
 
94 ADVENTURE 
 
 He had climbed to the top of a tram-car, and had 
 paid his fare — ^three ha'pence, it was — ^and then 
 the impulse came, and before he quite knew what 
 he was doing he was off the car and walking 
 towards the Heath. It was a pity about the three 
 ha'pence. . . . And if he had gone to the shop, 
 what Would he have done ? Put on a ridiculous 
 frock-coat, its lapels full of pins, and spent the 
 day selling stuff at two-three a yard to women 
 who didn't seem to realise that he was human 
 same's they were. Women ! Huh ! . . . He'd 
 have had to help them to make up their silly 
 minds. " We're selling quite a lot of this shade, 
 madam ! " or " I think you'll find this suit your 
 purpose, madam ! " or " Mmm ! No-o, madam, I 
 don't think that's quite what you want. This is 
 more like it ! " or " Shall I send it for you, 
 madam ? No trouble at all, madam. What 
 name and address, please ? " or " Anything else 
 to-day, madam ? No ! Theng-cue ! " That on 
 a day, like yesterday ! The smeU of stuff at 
 two-three a yard on a day like yesterday ! . . . 
 
 He had stood on the Spaniards' Road, and 
 had seen the pinnacles of City churches shooting 
 up into clouds of smoke and mist. " Bidden look 
 bad, neither ! " And had looked towards the 
 little humpy hills at Harrow that seemed like 
 cushions for the sky. He had thrown stones into 
 the Round Pond, and had set a dog barking 
 furiously, to the consternation of an elderly lady. 
 
ADVENTURE 95 
 
 He had wandered round the arnbling lanes, and 
 had gaped at the cottage where Byron Hved and 
 the place where Keats heard the nightingale. He 
 had seen a great blackbird . . . and then he had 
 plucked whinblossoms, not without fear that he 
 might be offending against the bye-law which 
 forbade malicious injury to trees, shrubs, plants, 
 etc. 
 
 " But it ain't malicious," he said to reassure 
 himself. 
 
 He had crossed the horse-ride and had thrown 
 himself down on a high grassy place, and had 
 rolled about and slept and dreamt, and then 
 rolled about and slept and dreamt again. He had 
 helped three boys to catch tiddlers in the ponds 
 beyond the horse-ride, and had learned much of 
 the habits of that fish and the respective value 
 of a plain tiddler and a tiddler with a red throat. 
 . . . Clay had got on his boots and trousers and 
 on his hands, and once he slipped on a wet bank, 
 and his foot went into the water. The boys 
 laughed, and he laughed too, and a girl who went 
 by — a jolly girl, with long hair and bright eyes — 
 laughed. Fine girl, she was. Looked nice! Not 
 like the girls in the shop, white and yellow, and 
 always got a headache. . . . He'd go up there 
 again one day 
 
 He had spent a fabulous sum on his midday 
 meal at " The BuU and Bush " ; but then what 
 was the good of doing a thing like that unless it 
 
96 ADVENTURE 
 
 was done well ? Might as well enjoy yourself 
 proper ! He had given twopence to the waiter ! 
 . . . And when the meal was over, no rushing 
 back to the shop as if you hadn't got a minute to 
 spare. He had strolled about the Heath quietly 
 and comfortably, smoking a cigar that cost four- 
 pence. It was a good cigar, too. He could tell 
 that because the ash did not fall off for a long 
 time. . . . 
 
 He remembered that he sat on a fallen tree for 
 a while and watched some children playing cricket, 
 and once he ran and fielded the ball for them, and 
 they asked him if he'd like a turn at the wicket, 
 and when he'd looked round to see if anyone was 
 watching he took the bat . . . and was bowled 
 first ball. After that he had wandered into the 
 Garden Suburb, and had cocked a critical eye at 
 the houses. Not bad, they weren't. He saw a 
 girl in a floppy dress. . . . Of course, it was clever 
 and all that, but floppy dress was not his style. 
 He preferred the style of the girl who had laughed 
 when he fell into the pond. Smart, she was. Her 
 skirt fitted closely about her shapely limbs, and 
 she had on a pair of fine silk stockings that you 
 could see through. . . . 
 
 " That's what I call a girl ! " he said to him- 
 self, as he thought of her. " I mean to say, that's 
 a proper girl ! . . ." 
 
 When he came out of the Garden Suburb he had 
 wandered aimlessly but contentedly about. He 
 
ADVENTURE 97 
 
 had found his way to the little zoo at Golder's 
 Hill, and had seen the kangaroo jump in the oddest 
 fashion. There were queer-looking birds there, 
 all coloured, and deer that came and nosed in 
 your hand. ... He had walked into Golder's 
 Park, and called for tea at the house that was 
 formerly a mansion, but is now an eating-place. 
 He sat there until the dusk came down, and then 
 he walked about chi-iMng a girl or two. . . . 
 At supper-time he had gone home ; but he sat so 
 long in his room thinking of the girl who had 
 laughed when he fell in the pond that he forgot 
 to go down to supper, and, rather than disturb 
 Mrs. Carson, he went out to get something to eat. 
 Chalk Farm had an ugly look last night, and it 
 reeked ! He had suddenly become depressed and 
 unhappy, and had had a strange inclination to 
 cry. . . . 
 
 Well, all that took place yesterday. Now for 
 Toft. Of course the firm would be wild when 
 they knew, and, after all — ^well, he was human 
 same's they were. Speaking strictly, he ought 
 not to have stayed away from the shop. He was 
 prepared to admit that. But there was an excuse 
 for him. He hadn't had much of a life. . . . 
 How would they like it, eh ? The stink of stuff 
 at two-three a yard aU day ! How would they 
 like it ? If Toft began bullying him ! . . . 
 
 He entered the shop, and when he had taken 
 off his outdoor coat, and put on his official frock- 
 
 G 
 
98 ADVENTURE 
 
 coat, he prepared to enter his department. There 
 was a heavy smell of carpet in the room. 
 
 " Co, what a fug ! " he exclaimed to himself. 
 
 Toft eyed him severely. 
 
 " You didn't turn up yesterday ! " he said, as 
 if he were giving news. " How is that ? " 
 
 " No, sir, I " 
 
 " Eh ? " 
 
 " The truth is; sir " 
 
 " WeU ? " 
 
 " Please, sir, I wassen feelin' very well ! " 
 
 " Oh ! You ought to have sent a message. 
 You know that, don't you ? " 
 
 " Yessir ! I'm sorry, sir ! " 
 
 " Well, don't let it occur again — see ! — of 
 you'll hear more about it ! Look sharp, now ; 
 we're very busy ! " 
 
 " Yessir ! Thank you, sir ! I'm very sorry ! " 
 
 " All right. Get to your counter, will you ? 
 There's a lot to do ! " 
 
 " Yessir ! " 
 
 " Of course, we shall stop a day's salary ! " 
 
 He looked up at Mr. Toft. " Yessir," he said. 
 
DISCONTENT 
 
 I CLIMBED to the top of Lurigedan, and while I 
 lay there panting for breath, for God knows I am 
 no climber, Murty came to me. 
 
 " It's a brave day ! " he said in greeting. 
 
 " It is, indeed ! " I replied. 
 
 He lay down by my side and gazed out towards 
 the sea. 
 
 " But, sure, it'll not keep up," he said after a 
 little while. " It'll be soft the morrow." 
 
 " How do you know, Murty ? " I asked. ' "" 
 
 "It's the way it always is here. Brave an' 
 fine one day, an' rainin' the next. Ye '11 be goin' 
 away .soon ? " 
 
 I nodded my head. 
 
 " On Saturday, mebbe." 
 
 " Yes, on Saturday, Murty." 
 
 He sat up and caught hold of his toes with his 
 fingers, and swayed himself about for a few 
 moments. 
 
 " It's well to be you," he said, " to be goin' 
 over to Englan'." 
 
 " Why, Murty ? " 
 
 99 
 
100 DISCONTENT 
 
 " Ah, sure, ye see things there. It's the quare 
 lonely place this to be stayin', an' you not seein' 
 a livin' sowl thrum one day's end til another, 
 barrin' the people ye see thrum the time ye 're 
 born til the time ye die, an' them not knowin' 
 anny more nor yourself, God help them ! " 
 
 " It's lonely everywhere, Murty," I said. 
 " Lonelier in London than it is here." I told 
 him how when I had gone to London first, a boy 
 of sixteen, I had stood outside the Mansion House 
 one Saturday and cried because there were six 
 or seven million men and women about me and I 
 did not know one of them. " Here you know 
 everybody," I said. 
 
 " Ah, but you can see things in towns," he 
 urged. " There's nathin' to see here on'y an 
 ould sweety shop, an' McClurg's public-house, an' 
 the long car comin' down the road wi' the mails. 
 I'll not be stoppin' here once I get the chance to 
 go away." 
 
 I said that I should have thought he would like 
 to be a farmer, but he shook his head vigorously. 
 " Norra bit o' me'U do that," he said. " There's 
 nathin' to do here but work thrum the dawn o' 
 day til the dark o' night, an' in the winter time 
 it's that cowl' wi' the win' blowin' thrum the 
 sea enough to blow the head aff ye that ye can't 
 go out, an' have to be sittin' crouchin' over the 
 fire, God help ye, to keep yerself warm. It's 
 no life that for a man, but a life for a dumb baste 
 
DISCONTENT loi 
 
 that has nathin' to do but ate the grass, an' he 
 down an' wait for the butcher to come an' take 
 it til the slaughter-house. If ye wur to go into 
 the village now, ye'd see the fellas lyin' up agin 
 the curfew tower, wi' their han's in their pockets, 
 an' nathin' at all in their heads but wonderin' 
 what to do wi' themselves afore bedtime, an' not 
 findin' no answer ! " 
 
 I became inept. "The reading-room," I 
 suggested. 
 
 " Readin'-room ! " he exclaimed scornfully. 
 "Sure, what's the good o' a readin'-room til 
 annyone, wi' a lot o' ould papers in them ? Ye 
 can't go into a readin'-room ivry night in the 
 week. I never was in the one in Cushendall 
 barrin' once, an' there was nathin' there but ould 
 Christian Her'lds, an' religious papers that make 
 ye sick to read them. The way they ram Jases 
 down your throat is enough to send a man to 
 the bad. I'U be off to the town as soon as I can ! ' ' 
 
 I talked to Murty about rural depopulation and 
 the land-hunger. 
 
 " Ah, people want land right enough," he said, 
 " but it's a sore lonely life to lead workin' it." 
 He stood up as he spoke and looked down into the 
 valley. " Wud ye just look at ould Barney 
 O'Hara down there," he said. He pointed to the 
 fields lying at the foot of Lurigedan, and I rose 
 and walked to his side. I saw an old man, very 
 bent, binding hay. 
 
102 DISCONTENT 
 
 "D'ye think I want to be the like o' that when 
 I'm his age ? " said Murty. " He can't read or 
 write, tliat ould lad, an' he knows nathin', an' 
 he works that hard he's never had time to find 
 annything out. All he can do is work his Ian', 
 If ye talk tU him about annythin' else, he gets 
 moidhered. An' it's the way wi' all the men 
 here. They can't enjoy theirselves because there's 
 nathin' til enjoy. If I was in a town now, I 
 woulden need to be goin' to bed at half-eight or 
 nine because I'm tired o' doin' nathin'. Ye can go 
 to a music-hall in a town for tuppence, an' hear 
 all the latest songs, but ye never hear nathin' here 
 except mebbe in the summer time when a visitor 
 like yerself comes, an' then the songs is ould ! " 
 
 " Will you go to Belfast ? " I asked. 
 
 " No, I'll go to Glasgow. There's more value 
 there." 
 
 " Do you know anyone in Glasgow ? " 
 
 " Ay, I have a brother there. My brother 
 Ned. It was him toul' me Glasgow was better 
 value nor Bilfast. It was him made the quare 
 fool o' me one time when he was here over the 
 head of a song I was singin'. Says he, ' That 
 song's brave an' ould ! ' An' me on'y heard it a 
 wee while afore he come ! " 
 
 " What does your brother do in Glasgow ? " 
 I asked. 
 
 " He's a barman." 
 
 " And how long has he to work ? " 
 
DISCONTENT 103 
 
 " He begins at eight in the mornin' an' he laves 
 aff at eleven at night ; but sure he gets a half- 
 holiday once a week, an' he has all day on Sunday, 
 for they won't let you drink on a Sunday in 
 Glasgow ; an' he goes tU a music-hall ivry week, 
 an' sometimes he goes til two m one day, for some 
 places has two houses a night, an' you can do the 
 two for fourpence in the gallery. That's cheap 
 enough. It 'ud take more'n fourpence to give 
 you pleasure in Cushendall ! " 
 
 " But, Murty," said I, " this is a finer place 
 than Glasgow. This hUl and the valley and the 
 sea cannot be compared with Glasgow and your 
 brother's foul-smelling public-house." 
 
 " Ah, what's the good of scenery in the winter 
 time ? " he replied. " Ye get tired o' lukkin' at 
 them aU the year round. Ye want a change. In 
 a town, now, ye get change. There's crowds o' 
 people an' all the latest songs. . . . It's all very 
 fine to talk, sir, but Ned doesn't want to come 
 back here, an' I do want to get away oura this. 
 That tells, doesn't it ? " 
 
 We stood there regarding the figure of Barney 
 O'Hara as he patiently'bound the bundles of hay, 
 and I thought to myself how sad a thing it was 
 that the boy by my side should long to fling him- 
 self into the unutterable hideousness of Glasgow 
 out of the incomparable beauty of Antrim, and 
 when I had thought that I turned to Murty and 
 told him so. 
 
104 DISCONTENT 
 
 " It's not sad at all," he replied. " Ye'd be 
 wantin' the town yerself if ye were livin' here all 
 the time. It's right an' easy to be talkin' the 
 way you're talkin' when you on'y come for a 
 trip, but ye'd be talkin' differ'nt, I can tell ye, 
 if ye lived here all the year. Come on," he said 
 suddenly, " an' I'll race ye down the grassy slope." 
 
 We half ran, half fell down the grassy slope, 
 and in a short time we came to the field where 
 Barney O'Hara was binding hay. 
 
 " That's a brave evenin' ! " said Murty to the 
 old man, as we ran by. 
 
 " Ay, it is," replied the old man without looking 
 up.^ 
 
 " Ould footer!" murmured Murty as he ran 
 on. 
 
COMPARISON 
 
 He and I sat on a seat in Hyde Park, and watched 
 the drift of fashionable folk go by. He was a 
 small, neat man, with a pleasant, pale face and 
 soft blue eyes, in which there was a whimsical, 
 wondering look. His mouth was puckered up 
 when I first saw him, but he was not whistling : 
 he seemed to me to be exclaiming in astonishment. 
 He gazed about him very eagerly ; he appeared 
 to be unable to look at the fashionable folk too 
 closely. Now and then, when some resplendent 
 man or beautiful woman went by, his lips would 
 pucker as if he were saying, " Oh ! " to himself ; 
 and his eyes gleamed like those of a puzzled child. 
 He turned and spoke to me quite simply, without 
 self-consciousness, as if it were natural for two 
 men who had never seen each other before to 
 speak and be neighbourly. 
 
 " You can't get over it," he said, " they're 
 nice-lookin' ! I mean to say, you can't 'elp 
 lookin' at 'em. That young girl that jus' passed 
 now, she was nice-lookin', wasn't she ? " 
 
 I looked at the retreating form of a tall, 
 los 
 
io6 COMPARISON 
 
 dark girl, with slender limbs, and nodded ray 
 head. 
 
 " I don't mean to say she's beautiful," he 
 continued. " Not what you'd call beautiful ! 
 But nice-lookin' ! Eh ? Walks nice, an' the 
 way she talked, too ! That was nice ! An' 'er 
 'air, an' the way she was dressed ! There's a lot 
 of 'em about 'ere like that. Nice-lookin' ! Got 
 
 nice 'ands ! " He held out his hands, as he 
 
 said this, and I saw that they were hard and rough 
 and red ; the nails were broken and distorted, and 
 the knuckles were knubbly. He dropped his 
 hands to his side, and laughed. " Not like mine, 
 eh ? " he said. 
 
 A boy went by, exquisitely tailored, and at his 
 side was a girl of seventeen. She was smiling at 
 something the boy said to her, and as she passed 
 us, she put her hand up to her loose hair and 
 flung it out so that it fell from her shoulder, and 
 down her back. It was thick and brown, and it 
 shone with beautyi I forgot the little man at my 
 side, until I heard him speak again. 
 
 " Now, she's nice-lookin'," he said. " I mean 
 to say she's real nice, she is ! Ah' 'e was nice- 
 lookin' too ! Well-set-up young feller, I call 
 'im ! Make a nice pair, they will ! Shouldn't 
 be a bit surprised if they 'it it off ! " He remained 
 silent for a few moments, and then began again. 
 " I s'pose they bin to church together, eh ? Yes, 
 I expect so 1 They all go to church about 'ere ! 
 
COMPARISON 107 
 
 You know ! Church Parade they call this ! 
 Mind you, I don't blame 'em. You can't 'elp 
 likin' 'em when you look at 'em ! Nice-lookin' 
 an' that ! You know, I can't make it out ! 
 I mean to say, 'ow is it ? They ain't wot you'd 
 call beautiful — some on 'em downright ugly, but 
 some'ow they're nice to look at. You know ! 
 Walks nice an' talks nice, and got nice 'ands ! — 
 I mean to say, look at me now ! I'm not like 
 them. I mean to say, if I 'ad the clothes they 
 'ave, I couldn't carry it off, you know. Look at 
 my 'ands ! Why, I couldn't wear gloves on 'em ! 
 An' I don't talk the way they do. An' walk ! 
 Well, I mean to say, it's silly to talk about it, 
 ain't it ? An' my wife, too ! — She was nice- 
 lookin' when I first knew 'er. Proper nice- 
 lookin', she was ! I mean to say she was as 
 nice-lookin' as any 'ere, considerin' ! Why, you 
 wouldn't believe wot my wife was like when she 
 was a young girl. You know ! Jaunty, she 
 was ! Walked about like anythink, an' did 'er 
 'air nice, an' all that ! But she ain't like it now, 
 you know ! I mean to say, she's all right, reely, 
 only some'ow . . . That young girl we see jus' 
 now with that boy, she'll be nice-lookin' when she 
 gets to be my wife's age, same's she is now. Only 
 older ! That's all. She'll do 'er 'air nice, an' 
 'ave nice 'ands, an' talk nice. Don't matter wot 
 age she is, she'll be nice-lookin'. Lots of old 
 'uns 'ere ! Sixty if they're a day, some of 'em ! 
 
io8 COMPARISON 
 
 Only they don't look old ! Of course, they make 
 'emselves up a bit, but it ain't all that ! Even 
 when they don't make 'emselves up, they look 
 nice. You know wot I mean ! Now, my wife, 
 she's not like that. She's not more'n forty, but 
 she looks a good bit more. Don't seem to take 
 no pride in 'erself. 'Er 'air — ^well, of course, it 
 ain't to be expected, not with all she 'as to do ! 
 I mean to say, it ain't reasonable to expect it. 
 Only ! . . . Well, you know the way it is your- 
 self ! I can't help thinkin' of wot she was like 
 when I first knew 'er ! See ! Proper nice-lookin' 
 she was ! An' that partic'lar ! " 
 
 The Park was crowded now, and the fashion- 
 able folk pressed close to us, as they went by. 
 Beautiful women, beautifully clad, passed to and 
 fro in an odour of fine perfumes. The little man 
 drew his breath through his nostrils. 
 
 " That's nice, that is," he exclaimed. " I bet 
 that cost a bit ! Did you 'ear the way their 
 dresses rustle, eh ? Silk ! I often come 'ere of a 
 Sunday mornin' an' spend a penny on a seat. 
 Fair treat, I call it ! Of course, my wife she 'as 
 to be cookin' the dinner, else I'd bring 'er, too. 
 Do 'er good, it would. I mean to say it 'ud do 
 anyone good. It's nice to see people lookin' 
 nice ! Any'ow, that's wot I think ! I often say 
 to 'er, if she was to try a bit more — only it ain't 
 fair to say that. She ain't got the time ! Stands 
 to reason she ain't. We've 'ad seven children. 
 
COMPARISON 109 
 
 Two of 'em dead, thank God ! I don't mean to 
 say I'm glad they're gone, only— well, you know 
 yourself, they got the best of it, ain't they, now ? 
 An' it makes things a bit- easier for 'er. It's a 
 bit of a nandful, seven ! An' the cookin' an' the 
 cleanin' an' all that. You know, I don't wonder 
 she don't take no pride in 'erself. I don't reely ! 
 I dessay she thinks I'm as bad as 'er. She 'ad 
 nice 'ands, too. I mean to say she was very 
 partic'lar about 'er 'ands. Rub lemons on 'em 
 every night to make 'em white. An' glycerine ! 
 Ever 'eard of that ? Keeps 'em soft an' white. 
 She read about it in a paper. An' do the grate 
 with gloves on. I often say to 'er if she'd only 
 kep' it up, she'd be as nice-lookin' as any of 'em. 
 But she didn't ! An' I don't wonder at it neither. 
 Not with wot she 'as to do. Only ! . . . They 
 do it all right. I mean to say their 'air don't get 
 the way 'ers is ! Mind, I'm not sayin' a word 
 against 'er. She an' me's all right, you know. 
 I don't mean to say we don't 'ave no words now 
 an' again, but on the 'ole, we're all right. On the 
 'ole ! Proper pals we are. I tell 'er all about 
 this every Sunday. She thinks same as me 
 about it. She's got too much to do. It ain't 
 'er fault, of course. I mean to say, she ain't 
 to blame. An' it ain't my fault. Jus' can't be 
 'elped ! " 
 
 The drift of fashionable folk had thinned, and 
 the little man murmured something about having 
 
no COMPARISON 
 
 to go. He gazed about him in the manner of one 
 who is eager to take a last good look at treasured 
 scenes, and then rose and stretched himself. 
 
 " I wouldn't miss comin' 'ere for anythink," 
 he said, and added, " Good-day, sir ! " and went 
 his way. 
 
THE BURIAL 
 
 The funeral procession from the girl's home to 
 the graveyard was due to begin at half-past two, 
 but long before that hour the crowd of mourners 
 began to collect. They stood about the entrance 
 to the lane leading to the churchyard, and waited. 
 The home of the dead girl faced the lane, and the 
 procession, therefore, would reach its journey's 
 end in a few moments from the time when it began 
 to move. Townsmen and neighbours mingled 
 with men from the country and the hills, and 
 fishermen from the bay where the girl was 
 drowned ; and each man as he came up to a 
 group of his acquaintances spoke of the terrible- 
 ness of the disaster, and then the talk circled 
 round the affairs of the small town. 
 
 John Mawhinney came along the old road to 
 Ballyshannon, and when he was by the lane, he 
 hailed James O'Hara. 
 
 " How're ye, James ? " he said. 
 
 James O'Hara, a lean, foxy-looking man, turned 
 
 at the sound of Mawhinney's voice. " Och, A'm 
 
 III 
 
112 THE BURIAL 
 
 just middlin'," he replied. " A've the quare cowl 
 on me ! How is yourself ? " 
 
 " Ah, A'm not so bad. Man-a-dear, this is a 
 tarr'ble sad thing about this young girl ! " 
 
 " Aye, it is that. Man, A mind her when she 
 was that height, the same wee girl ! " He allowed 
 his hand to fall to the level of his knees as he 
 spoke. " An' a smart Wee girl she was, too ! 
 Aye ! She always had an answer for ye, what- 
 ever ye said, she was that sharp ! " 
 
 He looked up as he spoke, and saw John 
 McClurg approaching. " Is that you, John ? " 
 he said. 
 
 McClurg, a large, moon-faced man, with little 
 smiling eyes, came puffing up to them. 
 
 "It is surely," he replied to O'Hara's greeting. 
 
 " A saw ye in the market the fair day," said 
 Mawhinney, " but ye wurn't lukkin', an' ye 
 didden see me. Did ye do well wi' yer cattle ? " 
 
 " Ah, A didden do so bad. A might 'a' dona 
 better, an' A might 'a' done worse ! " 
 
 " Did ye sell thon wee heifer ye had wi' ye ? " 
 
 " A did not. A wudden take the price " 
 
 O'Hara tapped him on the arm. " A s'pose ye 
 come to the funer'l ? " he said. 
 
 John McClurg glanced across the road to the 
 door of the house where the dead girl lay. 
 " Well," he said, " A thought A wud just dander 
 into the town an' show me respect til the dead; 
 God rest her sowl ! " The three men raised their 
 
THE BURIAL 113 
 
 hats at his prayer. " What time does it begin ? ",. 
 he asked. 
 
 "They wur talkin' about half -after-two," 
 replied Mawhinney, "but A'm thinkin' it'll be 
 later 'n that. Sure, the mail train's not in thrum 
 BUfast yet, an' there's fren's comin' thrum, there 
 an' thrum Derry, too, an' they'll be wantin' their 
 denner when they git here. It'll be three o'clock 
 afore iver they stir out o' the dure ! " 
 
 " Aye, it will that," said James O'Hara; and 
 then he turned and spoke to John McClurg. 
 " Wur ye wantin' much for yer wee heifer ? " he 
 asked. 
 
 McClurg bit a piece of tobacco off a long twist 
 of da!rk villainous stuff, and when he had chewed 
 it in his mouth a while, he spat yellow juice over 
 the kerb, and then said, " You might think A 
 was wantin' too much, an' A might think meself 
 A was wantin' too little ! " 
 
 " A saw her meself," exclaimed Mawhinney, 
 " afore she went intil the sea, laughin' an' jokin' 
 like annythin' ! Aw, God save us all thrum a 
 death the like o' her death ! " 
 
 " They wur a quare long time findin' her ! " 
 
 " They wur." 
 
 " Wud ye be wantin' five poun's fur yer wee 
 heifer, John McClurg ? " said James O'Hara. 
 
 " A wud, indeed, an' a bit more on top of it ! " 
 
 " They fouii' her jus' where she went dowji," 
 continued Mawhinney, in the voice of a man who 
 
 H 
 
114 THE BURIAL 
 
 is reciting an oft-told tale. " Man, it's quare the 
 way the body returns like that ! " 
 
 " Aye ! " 
 
 " Who's thon man wi' the tall hat an' the long 
 coat on him, d'ye know ? " asked one that stood 
 by of Mawhinney, as a man in a frock coat 
 knocked at the door. 
 
 " A nivir seen him afore," replied Mawhinney. 
 " He's a stranger in this town, A'm thinkin'. 
 D'ye know him, James ? " 
 
 " A do not," replied O'Hara. " Mebbe he's 
 come be the train. The mail's in now. Thonder's 
 Patrick Magrath with the mail-car comin' roun' 
 the corner ! " 
 
 " Ye 're mebbe right ! " Mawhinney resumed 
 the recital of his tale. " Did ye see the piece in 
 the Derry paper about her ? " he said. " Thon 
 was the quare bit. An' there was a piece of 
 portry be the young wumman in the post-affice ! " 
 
 " Aye, A saw that. It was quare an' nice. A 
 didden know thon wumman cud do the like o' 
 that ! " 
 
 " Ah, sure she's in Government sarvice, issen 
 she ? . . . " 
 
 " The paper said she was the quare, clivir, wee 
 girl, an' tuk a lotta prizes at the school in Derry 
 her da sent her to. They must 'a' spent a power 
 o' money on her trainin' ! " 
 
 "They did that. They nivir grudged her 
 nathin'. It's a quare pity of them ! " 
 
THE BURIAL 115 
 
 " Aye, it only shows ye shudden make a god of 
 yer cWldher I . . . .'' 
 
 Two young men, one of whom carried a costly 
 wreath in his hands, went up to the door, and 
 presently were admitted to the house. 
 
 " Fur dear sake, luk at thon wreath ! " ex- 
 claimed John Mawhinney. " Man, thon must 'a' 
 cost somethin' ! " 
 
 "Aye, it's thrum the young men at the 
 Y.M.C.A. She was goin' to be married to one o' 
 them. Did ye nivir hear about it ? " 
 
 " Naw. What wus his name ? " 
 
 " A think it wus young McCracken ! " 
 
 " What ! Thon lad ? " 
 
 " Aye. It'll be a cut up for him, this ! t ; . 
 John McClurg, will ye take six poun' ten for yer 
 heifer ? " 
 
 " Mebbe A wud if it was affered to me ! . . ." 
 
 " There's manny a Cathlik would be willin' to 
 give a wreath, too, A'm thinkin' ! " said John 
 Mawhinney. 
 
 "Aye, that's true enough. Sure, there's no 
 room for bigitry where death is ! . . . Wur ye 
 thinkin' o' makin' me the affer, James ? " 
 
 O'Hara walked a little way from the group, 
 and then, squirting tobacco juice before him, 
 returned to it. " Ah, A was just wondherin' if 
 ye wud take it if it was affered t' ye. A wudden 
 after more'n five poun' for it meself ! . . ." 
 
 " Ah, well, it wudden be no good you afferin' 
 
ii6 THE BURIAL 
 
 that amount. A Wudden part wi' it fur the 
 money ! " 
 
 "There's a brave crowd here now," said 
 O'Hara, turning towards the crowd. " It'll be 
 a big procession, A'm thinkin' ! " 
 
 " It will that. But A've seen bigger. There 
 was the time Dr. Cochrane died. D'ye mind that ? 
 That w;as a procession an' a half ! " 
 
 " Aye, it was indeed. Near a mile long that 
 was ! . . ." 
 
 The door of the house opened, and a number of 
 persons entered. 
 
 " They'll be startin' soon," said Mawhinney. 
 
 " Ah, well, God help her, she'll soon be oura all 
 this^ It's the long sleep til the Day o' Judgment ! " 
 
 " Ye 're right there. Ye are indeed ! . . ." 
 
 The door slowly re-opened, and men came 
 forth bearing the yellow cofl&n on their shoulders. 
 A great quietness descended upon the village 
 street, and each man in it removed his hat and, 
 if he were a Catholic, crossed himself and prayed 
 for the repose of the dead girl's soul. Here and 
 there a woman wrapped her shawl about her face, 
 and wept. The bearers carried the coffin across 
 the street to the lane leading to the churchyard, 
 and the people in the street fell in behind, and 
 marched slowly towards the grave. A bell tolled 
 softly, and in the house from which the body had 
 just been borne a woman was heard crying and 
 lamenting. 
 
THE BURIAL 117 
 
 " A'U give ye six poun's fur yer wee heifer," 
 said James O'Hara, as the body went by. 
 
 " Ah, God rest her sowl ! " murmured McClurg, 
 marking himself with the sign of the cross on the 
 head and breast. " A cudden take less nor six 
 poun' ten ! " 
 
 " A cudden give more nor six poun' ! . . . " 
 
 " Well, ye '11 not get it fur the price. It's six 
 poun' ten or nathin' ! " 
 
 " Ye 're the hard man to bargain wi' ! . . ." 
 
 " A'm not hard at all ! . . . Mebbe, they're 
 better dead young nor dead oul' ! " 
 
 " Will ye not budge yer price ? " 
 
 " A will not ! " 
 
 " They're in the graveyard now. . . . Come on 
 down til Maloney's public-house, an A'U sale the 
 bargain wi' ye." 
 
SAFETY 
 
 There were many terrors hidden in the heart of 
 Mr. Timms ; but they all came from one dreadful 
 thought. Supposing that one day he should be 
 unable to work, what would become of him ? If 
 he were to fall ill, or meet with an accident, or if 
 his employers were suddenly to become bankrupt, 
 what would become of him ? He would waken 
 at night, crying out in fear because of some 
 horrible dream in which he saw himself dismissed 
 from the service of Messrs. Carlingford and Com- 
 pany for one reason or another. Sometimes it 
 was because his accounts had become muddled ; 
 and when he dreamt that dream, he invariably 
 hastened early to the office and in a sort of delirium; 
 went through his ledgers to make certain that 
 they were in order, that the last figure had been 
 entered, the last total calculated. At other times, 
 he dreamt that old age had come upon him, and 
 that his employers had, with regret, informed him 
 that they required the services of a younger and 
 more vigorous man. 
 
 In such dreams, they would say to him that he 
 
 ilS 
 
SAFETY 119 
 
 had been a loyal servant and that they were very 
 reluctant to part with him, but, they would add, 
 competition was very keen, and the firms that 
 survived had to employ the sharp-witted. They 
 always regretted that their finances did not 
 permit of a pension being paid to him, but they 
 begged to be allowed to present him with the sum 
 of twenty pounds and their good wishes for his 
 future happiness. . . . From such dreams, Mr. 
 Timms would awake in a sweat ; he would spring 
 out of bed, and run swiftly to his mirror to see 
 whether grey hairs had grown up like tares 
 among wheat to destroy him. ... If he were 
 to meet with an accident or to become sick, 
 Messrs. Carlingford and Company would probably 
 continue to pay his salary to him for a few months. 
 . . . They had been known to pay a salary to 
 a man who was ill for six months. . . . But 
 supposing Mr. Timms were to be unwell for more 
 than six months ? Supposing he were to contract 
 some incurable complaint ? . . . They could not 
 be expected to continue paying a salary to him 
 for the remainder of his life ! And then his 
 savings would begin to shrink. And when they 
 had gone ! . . . 
 
 What Mr. Timms feared most of all was that 
 some day he might give way to his moods. At 
 intervals, he had an extraordinary desire to seek 
 adventures. Generally, these desires came at the 
 end of each quarter when work was heaviest. He 
 
120 SAFETY 
 
 would be sitting quietly at the desk at nine or 
 ten o'clock at night, perhaps (for at the end of 
 the quarter there was a great deal of overtime 
 work), and suddenly, just when he was busy 
 writing " E. and O. E." at the foot of an account, 
 he would feel something inside him urging him 
 to do the most preposterous things. The some- 
 thing would say, " Why don't you go out and 
 enjoy yourself ? Go to a theatre or a music-hall 
 or a concert or a public-house ! Do something 
 to show that you are alive ! . . ." All of which 
 was extremely siUy ; for supposing he were to take 
 the advice of the something inside him ! Sup- 
 posing he were to go to the public -house, for 
 example, and were to get drunk ! Well, that 
 would be dreadful ! Mr. Carlingford might see 
 him just at the moment he was reeling out of the 
 public-house into the street ; and he might think 
 that he was in the habit of getting drunk. . . , 
 Supposing, too, he were to get drunk, he might 
 get into trouble with the police. . . . Even if 
 he were to escape the eye of Mr. Carlingford, and 
 were not to get into trouble with the police, he 
 would be certain to wake in the morning with a 
 very bad headache. He might be tempted to lie 
 in bed longer than was right, and so he should be 
 late at the office, and a red line would be drawn 
 against his name in the attendance book — a thing 
 that had never happened, except on foggy morn- 
 ings, during the whole of his career in the service 
 
SAFETY 121 
 
 of Messrs. Carlingford and Company. Even if 
 he were not so tenipted, the headache would 
 make him less able accurately and expeditiously 
 to perform his work, and Mr. Carlingford might 
 notice this. Mr. Carlingford would be sure to 
 observe an error or a piece of carelessness in his 
 work ; much more likely, indeed, to do so in his 
 case than in the case of Morrison, who frequently 
 came late to the office and very often made mis- 
 takes. That was the penalty of being strictly 
 accurate ; an error was more noticeable than in 
 the case of the careless. Mr. Carlingford would 
 be sure to say, " Hilloa, TimmSj what's this ? 
 A mistake ! You're not up to the mark this 
 morning ! . . ." And then they would begin to 
 make remarks, Mr. Carlingford and the Company, 
 and shake their heads, and say, " Timms is getting 
 on in years, or getting slack, or is less careful than 
 he used to be. . . ." 
 
 That's what would come of doing anything 
 so silly as was suggested by the thing inside 
 him. 
 
 Mr. Timms was always able to point this out 
 clearly to the thing inside him, but he was 
 mightily afraid of it all the same ; for he suspected 
 that some day it might be too strong to be reasoned 
 with. He remembered with alarm that on one 
 occasion, when he was quite a young man, it had 
 startled him out of his wits by suggesting to him 
 that he should marry a very nice young person 
 
122 SAFETY 
 
 who had been employed as a typist by Messrs. 
 Carlingford and Company. It had carried him so 
 far off his balance that he had actually spoken 
 to her in office hours about matters that were not 
 really relevant to the affairs of Messrs. Carling- 
 ford and Company. He shuddered when he 
 thought that one afternoon the Company had 
 come in quickly and unexpectedly and found him 
 standing by Miss Gordon's side. Fortunately he 
 had the presence of mind to take up a batch of 
 biUs, and pretend to be explaining them to her ; 
 but he received such a shock that he had never 
 ventured to talk to her quite so carelessly again. 
 Once he had taken Miss Gordon to tea, and they 
 had talked for a long while about the office. 
 Then Miss Gordon had invited him to her home, 
 and she and her mother (for she was fatherless) 
 had talked so long about the office that it had 
 grown late, and so they asked him to stay to 
 supper. Then, one Saturday, he asked Miss 
 Gordon if she would care to go to a theatre with 
 him, and she had said she would. They went to 
 see a thing called '/ lolanthe," which he could not 
 help thinking was somewhat foolish ; but Miss 
 Gordon said it was awfully nice, and that the 
 girl who played the part of lolanthe was awfully 
 nice. She had said she was awfully fond of 
 Gilbert and Sullivan, the gentlemen, he dis- 
 covered from the programme, who were respon- 
 sible for ." lolanthe. " She had seen several of their 
 
SAFETY 123 
 
 pieces, and liked them awfully much : she thought 
 they were all awfully nice ; and her mother thought 
 so too. . . . 
 
 He took her to tea at a tea-house in the Strand, 
 and when they separated, she told him that she 
 thanked him very much, and that she had had an 
 awfully nice time. 
 
 He remembered it so well. He had gone home 
 that evening feeling that a life passed continually 
 in the society of Miss Gordon would be very 
 pleasant. He remembered distinctly the sense 
 of loneliness he had had as he ascended the stairs 
 of the lodging-house in Camberwell where he 
 lived ; how dingy his bed-sitting-room had seemed, 
 and how tasteless and sloppy Miss Squibb's food 
 was. The thing inside him kept saying, " Risk 
 it, man, risk it ! Two can live as cheaply as one. 
 Risk it, man, risk it ! " He had finished the 
 repulsive food provided by Miss Squibb, and then 
 had gone into the street again. He remembered 
 that he walked aimlessly about, listening to the 
 thing inside him saying, " Risk it, man, risk it ! " 
 until, to his amazement, he found himself stand- 
 ing outside the door of Miss Gordon's home. His 
 hand was raised to the knocker, when suddenly 
 he said to the thing inside him, " But supposing 
 I were to lose my job, or fall sick or something, 
 what would become of me with a wife and perhaps 
 children ? " And his hand had fallen away from 
 the knocker, and he had turned and fled back to 
 
124 SAFETY 
 
 the dingy bed-sitting-room that he hired from 
 Miss Squibb. . . . 
 
 Miss Gordon went away from the office of 
 Messrs. Carlingford and Company soon after 
 that, and he never saw her again. He remembered 
 that he had taken her hand as she went out of 
 the ofi&ce on the last day of her engagement, and 
 that he said " Good-bye " to her, and wished her 
 good luck. He remembered that she had looked 
 up at him for a moment or two, with a queer, 
 questioning look in her eyes, and that she had 
 stood in silence as if she were waiting for him to 
 say something else. And then she had gone 
 away. ... He supposed she had married. 
 Perhaps she was dead ! . . . 
 
 That was the kind of thing the thing inside 
 him was always urging him to do. Morrison had 
 married, and Morrison was poor. Of course; 
 Mr. Timms, too, was poor ; but that was not 
 the point. Morrison was harassed ; Morrison's 
 wife was always ill, or one of the children was ill, 
 or something or other. Then one of the children 
 died. ... Of course, he was very sorry for 
 Morrison when that happened, but he could not 
 help thinking how fortunate he was to be spared 
 all that trouble. When he reflected on the 
 approach of old age and disaster, he was com- 
 forted to some extent by the thought that such 
 things would be worse for Morrison than they 
 were likely to be for him. 
 
SAFETY 125 
 
 One day, a junior clerk in the office, a very nice 
 young man by the name of Cook, pitched his pen 
 on the face of a clean page of a ledger, and swore 
 horribly. " I'm fed up with this life ! " he said, 
 and, swinging himself off his desk, he went to 
 the coat-peg and began to put on his coat and 
 hat. 
 
 " But it's not lunch-time yet," said Mr. Timms 
 to him wonderingly. 
 
 " I know that," Cook replied. " I'm off. I'm 
 going to Canada, or hell, or somewhere out of 
 this ! I'm sick of clerking ! " 
 
 Mr. Timms had asked questions about Canada. 
 Had Cook any friends there ? Had he 
 been promised, definitely promised, employment 
 there ? What prospects had he ? To his horror. 
 Cook answered that he had not any friends in 
 Canada, that he had not any definite or in- 
 definite promise of work there, and that his 
 prospects were nil. 
 
 " But it's madness," he urged, " to throw up 
 a fairly safe job for a risky thing like Canada ! " 
 
 " You've got to take risks sometimes," said 
 Cook obstinately. 
 
 " Wait till you're older," replied Mr. Timms, 
 " and you'll know better." 
 
 And then Cook had said a remarkable thing. 
 " Yes, I know," he answered gloomily. " They 
 always say that, and then when you're old you're 
 too cowardly to know better ! " 
 
126 SAFETY 
 
 Mr. Timms was too busy trying to understand 
 what this meant to notice that Cook had gone 
 off, and it was not until Mr. Carlingford called 
 for the young man that he realised what had 
 happened. 
 
 " Where's Cook ? " Mr. Carlingford demanded 
 angrily, for he had been kept waiting a long time, 
 a minute or so. 
 
 " I think he's gone to Canada, sir ! " replied 
 Mr. Timms. 
 
 " To where ? " exclaimed Mr. Carlingford. 
 
 Mr. Timms explained what had happened. 
 
 " Are his books all right ? " said Mr. Carlirig- 
 f ord ; and when he had been reassured, he nodded 
 his head, and went back to his office. " Silly 
 young ass ! " he said. 
 
 Cook had written to Mr. Timms some months 
 afterwards, and had stated that he was getting 
 on well. " It was rotten at first," he wrote, 
 " but this is worth it ! Why don't you come, 
 too ? " 
 
 Mr. Timms replied to Cook's letter, and stated 
 very precisely that it would be absurd to give up 
 a comparatively safe post for a positively un- 
 certain thing. It had happened that Cook had 
 succeeded, but there was no guarantee that he, 
 Timms, would also succeed. He was older than 
 Cook. . . . 
 
 Then the dreadful thing happened. Messrs. 
 Carlingford and Company became bankrupt, and 
 
SAFETY 127 
 
 Mr. Timms was without employment. In a kind 
 of desperation, he tramped from office to office 
 in search of work, but always he was told that a 
 younger man was required. He would go home 
 in the evening and calculate the amount of his 
 savings. He quitted the house of Miss Squibb, 
 and took a cheaper lodging. He estimated the 
 number of weeks he could live on a pound a week 
 without work, and found that his savings would 
 suffice for a year and a half. After that ? . . . 
 He became frenzied when six months had gone 
 by, and he was still unemployed. He tried to live 
 on less than a pound a week, and he removed to 
 a still cheaper lodging. One day he felt a curious 
 pain, and he ran desperately to a doctor. " If I 
 don't take care of myself," he said, " I may be 
 unable to look for work at all, and then what will 
 become of me ? " He went into the doctor's 
 surgery, and sat down in the waiting-room to wait 
 his turn. He fingered the pages of an old illus- 
 trated paper that was lying on the table, and 
 found Wmself getting confused over a picture of 
 stalactites and stalagmites that some one had 
 found in a fearful cave in Africa. " Queer 
 things," he was muttering to himself, when the 
 doctor summoned him to him. . . . 
 
 He came out of the surgery with a smile on his 
 face. The lines about his mouth and eyes seemed 
 to have been rolled out. His nervousness and 
 alarm had gone, and in their place was calm. He 
 
128 SAFETY 
 
 glanced about him fearlessly, and when he said 
 " Good-day " to the doctor, he said it jauntily. 
 
 " Plucky chap, that ! " said the doctor, as he 
 shut the door behind him. 
 
 " Thank God ! " said Mr. Timms, " Oh, thank 
 God, I'm safe now ! " 
 
 And in three months he Was dead. 
 
 Printed bv 
 Ballantyne & Company 
 London "° 
 
EIGHT O'CLOCK and otiier Studies. By 
 St. John G. Ervine. Crown 8vo, 2s. 6d. 
 net. 
 
 " Distinguished by humour, quick observation, and 
 effective and economical writing." — Daily News and 
 Leader. 
 
 " Mr. Ervine, who is familiar to friends of the Irish 
 Theatre as the Author of ' Mixed Marriages,' brings to 
 these little tales the same sanity of judgment and first- 
 hand knowledge of the lives of the respectable poor which 
 were such marked features of his play." — Morning Post. 
 
 " The stories in this book are all admirable. Most of 
 them are quite perfect in their form. . . . Mr. Ervine 
 is always himself and always interesting. His little book 
 will delight the discerning." — Daily Express (London). 
 
 " It is only a blatant and base age which overlooks its 
 short story writers like the present one, and every new- 
 comer to their ranks deserves the congratulations due to 
 heroes. . . . Gifted with insight into human nature 
 . . . never fails to strike the true and human note in 
 realism." — Daily Citizen. 
 
 " Mr. Ervine writes with understanding and sympathy, 
 - anii_tbe resu lt is a boo k of real human i nter est ; one that^ 
 can hardly fail to arouse emotions of pity and of a bettei." 
 understanding of the lot of all those who are desolate and 
 oppressed."— T. M. P. in The New Witness. 
 
 " The writing of sketches and short stories is, as Mr. 
 Ervine's Irish characters would say, ' the quare business.' 
 There is no such thing as an infallible recipe for their 
 concoction, each master of this delightful baffling little 
 art having his own private and incommunicable method. 
 . . . This book contains seventeen studies ; not one of 
 which but displays admirable craftsmanship . . . the 
 mere technical execution is almost perfect, with not a 
 word out of place or redundant, with construction neatly 
 balanced, and with every point made with ease and 
 precision." — P. W., in The Manchester Guardian. 
 
 " Mr. Ervine is a very considerate artist. He makes 
 his effects with an extraordinary economy of material." — 
 The Star. 
 
 " This slim little book of stories and sketches shows Mr. 
 Ervine to be a -man of greater variety than one might 
 have gleaned from his plays. They have all the power of 
 observation that ' Mixed Marriage ' had ; but they have 
 also an unexpectedly wide range and a genuine capacity 
 for expression combined with a reticence that makes for 
 true realism." — Pall Mall Gazette.