“Mmmyes, I believe so....  I think he’s what you call black sheep.  We haven’t many of them, thank God! but we have a few....  He’s an unfortunate man of some kind....”

“And how does he knock it out?” asked Mr. O’Connor.

“That’s another mystery.”

“Is he attached to any chapel or church or institution or—–­”

“No,” said Mr. Henchy, “I think he’s travelling on his own account....  God forgive me,” he added, “I thought he was the dozen of stout.”

“Is there any chance of a drink itself?” asked Mr. O’Connor.

“I’m dry too,” said the old man.

“I asked that little shoeboy three times,” said Mr. Henchy, “would he send up a dozen of stout.  I asked him again now, but he was leaning on the counter in his shirt-sleeves having a deep goster with Alderman Cowley.”

“Why didn’t you remind him?” said Mr. O’Connor.

“Well, I couldn’t go over while he was talking to Alderman Cowley.  I just waited till I caught his eye, and said:  ’About that little matter I was speaking to you about....’  ’That’ll be all right, Mr. H.,’ he said.  Yerra, sure the little hop-o’- my-thumb has forgotten all about it.”

“There’s some deal on in that quarter,” said Mr. O’Connor thoughtfully.  “I saw the three of them hard at it yesterday at Suffolk Street corner.”

“I think I know the little game they’re at,” said Mr. Henchy.  “You must owe the City Fathers money nowadays if you want to be made Lord Mayor.  Then they’ll make you Lord Mayor.  By God!  I’m thinking seriously of becoming a City Father myself.  What do you think?  Would I do for the job?”

Mr. O’Connor laughed.

“So far as owing money goes....”

“Driving out of the Mansion House,” said Mr. Henchy, “in all my vermin, with Jack here standing up behind me in a powdered wig —­eh?”

“And make me your private secretary, John.”

“Yes.  And I’ll make Father Keon my private chaplain.  We’ll have a family party.”

“Faith, Mr. Henchy,” said the old man, “you’d keep up better style than some of them.  I was talking one day to old Keegan, the porter.  ‘And how do you like your new master, Pat?’ says I to him.  ’You haven’t much entertaining now,’ says I.  ‘Entertaining!’ says he.  ’He’d live on the smell of an oil- rag.’  And do you know what he told me?  Now, I declare to God I didn’t believe him.”

“What?” said Mr. Henchy and Mr. O’Connor.

“He told me:  ’What do you think of a Lord Mayor of Dublin sending out for a pound of chops for his dinner?  How’s that for high living?’ says he.  ‘Wisha! wisha,’ says I.  ‘A pound of chops,’ says he, ‘coming into the Mansion House.’  ‘Wisha!’ says I, ’what kind of people is going at all now?”

At this point there was a knock at the door, and a boy put in his head.

“What is it?” said the old man.

“From the Black Eagle,” said the boy, walking in sideways and depositing a basket on the floor with a noise of shaken bottles.