“Five men,” thought he, “upon a narrow staircase are merely one man who has to be killed five times, but five men in a room are five simultaneous assailants.  I need O’Toole here, I need O’Toole’s six feet four and the length of his arm and the weight of him—­these things I need—­but are there five or only four?” And he was at once aware that the two men at the fire had ceased to talk of their business.  No one, indeed, was speaking at all, and no one so much as shuffled a foot.  Wogan raised his head and proceeded to light his pipe; and he saw that all the five men were silently watching him, and it seemed to him that those five pairs of eyes were unnaturally bright.

However, he appeared to be entirely concerned with his pipe, which, however hard he puffed at it, would not draw.  No doubt the tobacco was packed too tight in the bowl.  He loosened it, and when he had loosened it the pipe had gone out.  He fumbled in his pocket and discovered in the breast of his coat a letter.  This letter he glanced through to make sure that it was of no importance, and having informed himself upon the point he folded it into a long spill and walked over to the hearth.

The five pairs of eyes followed his movements.  He, however, had no attention to spare.  He bent down, lit his spill in the flame, and deliberately lighted his pipe.  The tobacco rose above the rim of the bowl like a head of ale in a tankard.  Wogan, still holding the burning spill in his right hand, pressed down the tobacco with the little finger of his left, and lighted the pipe again.  By this time his spill had burned down to his fingers.  He dropped the end into the fire and walked back to his seat.  The five pairs of eyes again turned as he turned.  He stumbled at a crack in the floor, fell against the table with a clatter of his sword, and rolled noisily into his seat.  When he sat down a careful observer might have noticed that his pistol was now at full cock.

He had barely seated himself when the polite man, who had come first hot and short of breath into the room, crossed the floor and leaning over the table said with a smile and the gentlest voice, “I think, sir, you ought to know that we are all very poor men.”

“I, too,” replied Wogan, “am an Irishman.”

The polite man leaned farther across the table; his voice became wheedling in its suavity.  “I think you ought to know that we are all very poor men.”

“The repetition of the remark,” said Wogan, “argues certainly a poverty of ideas.”

“We wish to become less poor.”

“It is an aspiration which has pushed many men to creditable feats.”

“You can help us.”

“My prayers are at your disposal,” said Wogan.

“By more than your prayers;” and he added in a tone of apology, “there are five of us.”

“Then I have a guinea apiece for you,” and Wogan thrust the table a little away from him to search his pockets.  It also gave him more play.