“It happened that you were peloothered, Tom,” said Mr. Cunningham gravely.

“True bill,” said Mr. Kernan, equally gravely.

“I suppose you squared the constable, Jack,” said Mr. M’Coy.

Mr. Power did not relish the use of his Christian name.  He was not straight-laced, but he could not forget that Mr. M’Coy had recently made a crusade in search of valises and portmanteaus to enable Mrs. M’Coy to fulfil imaginary engagements in the country.  More than he resented the fact that he had been victimised he resented such low playing of the game.  He answered the question, therefore, as if Mr. Kernan had asked it.

The narrative made Mr. Kernan indignant.  He was keenly conscious of his citizenship, wished to live with his city on terms mutually honourable and resented any affront put upon him by those whom he called country bumpkins.

“Is this what we pay rates for?” he asked.  “To feed and clothe these ignorant bostooms... and they’re nothing else.”

Mr. Cunningham laughed.  He was a Castle official only during office hours.

“How could they be anything else, Tom?” he said.

He assumed a thick, provincial accent and said in a tone of command: 

“65, catch your cabbage!”

Everyone laughed.  Mr. M’Coy, who wanted to enter the conversation by any door, pretended that he had never heard the story.  Mr. Cunningham said: 

“It is supposed—­they say, you know—­to take place in the depot where they get these thundering big country fellows, omadhauns, you know, to drill.  The sergeant makes them stand in a row against the wall and hold up their plates.”

He illustrated the story by grotesque gestures.

“At dinner, you know.  Then he has a bloody big bowl of cabbage before him on the table and a bloody big spoon like a shovel.  He takes up a wad of cabbage on the spoon and pegs it across the room and the poor devils have to try and catch it on their plates:  65, catch your cabbage.”

Everyone laughed again:  but Mr. Kernan was somewhat indignant still.  He talked of writing a letter to the papers.

“These yahoos coming up here,” he said, “think they can boss the people.  I needn’t tell you, Martin, what kind of men they are.”

Mr. Cunningham gave a qualified assent.

“It’s like everything else in this world,” he said.  “You get some bad ones and you get some good ones.”

“O yes, you get some good ones, I admit,” said Mr. Kernan, satisfied.

“It’s better to have nothing to say to them,” said Mr. M’Coy.  “That’s my opinion!”

Mrs. Kernan entered the room and, placing a tray on the table, said: 

“Help yourselves, gentlemen.”

Mr. Power stood up to officiate, offering her his chair.  She declined it, saying she was ironing downstairs, and, after having exchanged a nod with Mr. Cunningham behind Mr. Power’s back, prepared to leave the room.  Her husband called out to her: