“What did I tell you, Mat?” said Mr. Hynes.  “Tricky Dicky Tierney.”

“0, he’s as tricky as they make ’em,” said Mr. Henchy.  “He hasn’t got those little pigs’ eyes for nothing.  Blast his soul!  Couldn’t he pay up like a man instead of:  ’O, now, Mr. Henchy, I must speak to Mr. Fanning....  I’ve spent a lot of money’?  Mean little schoolboy of hell!  I suppose he forgets the time his little old father kept the hand-me-down shop in Mary’s Lane.”

“But is that a fact?” asked Mr. O’Connor.

“God, yes,” said Mr. Henchy.  “Did you never hear that?  And the men used to go in on Sunday morning before the houses were open to buy a waistcoat or a trousers—­moya!  But Tricky Dicky’s little old father always had a tricky little black bottle up in a corner.  Do you mind now?  That’s that.  That’s where he first saw the light.”

The old man returned with a few lumps of coal which he placed here and there on the fire.

“Thats a nice how-do-you-do,” said Mr. O’Connor.  “How does he expect us to work for him if he won’t stump up?”

“I can’t help it,” said Mr. Henchy.  “I expect to find the bailiffs in the hall when I go home.”

Mr. Hynes laughed and, shoving himself away from the mantelpiece with the aid of his shoulders, made ready to leave.

“It’ll be all right when King Eddie comes,” he said.  “Well boys, I’m off for the present.  See you later.  ’Bye, ’bye.”

He went out of the room slowly.  Neither Mr. Henchy nor the old man said anything, but, just as the door was closing, Mr. O’Connor, who had been staring moodily into the fire, called out suddenly: 

“’Bye, Joe.”

Mr. Henchy waited a few moments and then nodded in the direction of the door.

“Tell me,” he said across the fire, “what brings our friend in here?  What does he want?”

“’Usha, poor Joe!” said Mr. O’Connor, throwing the end of his cigarette into the fire, “he’s hard up, like the rest of us.”

Mr. Henchy snuffled vigorously and spat so copiously that he nearly put out the fire, which uttered a hissing protest.

“To tell you my private and candid opinion,” he said, “I think he’s a man from the other camp.  He’s a spy of Colgan’s, if you ask me.  Just go round and try and find out how they’re getting on.  They won’t suspect you.  Do you twig?”

“Ah, poor Joe is a decent skin,” said Mr. O’Connor.

“His father was a decent, respectable man,” Mr. Henchy admitted.  “Poor old Larry Hynes!  Many a good turn he did in his day!  But I’m greatly afraid our friend is not nineteen carat.  Damn it, I can understand a fellow being hard up, but what I can’t understand is a fellow sponging.  Couldn’t he have some spark of manhood about him?”

“He doesn’t get a warm welcome from me when he comes,” said the old man.  “Let him work for his own side and not come spying around here.”

“I don’t know,” said Mr. O’Connor dubiously, as he took out cigarette-papers and tobacco.  “I think Joe Hynes is a straight man.  He’s a clever chap, too, with the pen.  Do you remember that thing he wrote...?”