Father Conmee went by Daniel Bergin’s publichouse against the window of which two unlabouring men lounged.  They saluted him and were saluted.

Father Conmee passed H. J. O’Neill’s funeral establishment where Corny Kelleher totted figures in the daybook while he chewed a blade of hay.  A constable on his beat saluted Father Conmee and Father Conmee saluted the constable.  In Youkstetter’s, the porkbutcher’s, Father Conmee observed pig’s puddings, white and black and red, lie neatly curled in tubes.

Moored under the trees of Charleville Mall Father Conmee saw a turfbarge, a towhorse with pendent head, a bargeman with a hat of dirty straw seated amidships, smoking and staring at a branch of poplar above him.  It was idyllic:  and Father Conmee reflected on the providence of the Creator who had made turf to be in bogs whence men might dig it out and bring it to town and hamlet to make fires in the houses of poor people.

On Newcomen bridge the very reverend John Conmee S.J. of saint Francis Xavier’s church, upper Gardiner street, stepped on to an outward bound tram.

Off an inward bound tram stepped the reverend Nicholas Dudley C. C. of saint Agatha’s church, north William street, on to Newcomen bridge.

At Newcomen bridge Father Conmee stepped into an outward bound tram for he disliked to traverse on foot the dingy way past Mud Island.

Father Conmee sat in a corner of the tramcar, a blue ticket tucked with care in the eye of one plump kid glove, while four shillings, a sixpence and five pennies chuted from his other plump glovepalm into his purse.  Passing the ivy church he reflected that the ticket inspector usually made his visit when one had carelessly thrown away the ticket.  The solemnity of the occupants of the car seemed to Father Conmee excessive for a journey so short and cheap.  Father Conmee liked cheerful decorum.

It was a peaceful day.  The gentleman with the glasses opposite Father Conmee had finished explaining and looked down.  His wife, Father Conmee supposed.  A tiny yawn opened the mouth of the wife of the gentleman with the glasses.  She raised her small gloved fist, yawned ever so gently, tiptapping her small gloved fist on her opening mouth and smiled tinily, sweetly.

Father Conmee perceived her perfume in the car.  He perceived also that the awkward man at the other side of her was sitting on the edge of the seat.

Father Conmee at the altarrails placed the host with difficulty in the mouth of the awkward old man who had the shaky head.

At Annesley bridge the tram halted and, when it was about to go, an old woman rose suddenly from her place to alight.  The conductor pulled the bellstrap to stay the car for her.  She passed out with her basket and a marketnet:  and Father Conmee saw the conductor help her and net and basket down:  and Father Conmee thought that, as she had nearly passed the end of the penny fare, she was one of those good souls who had always to be told twice bless you, my child, that they have been absolved, pray for me.  But they had so many worries in life, so many cares, poor creatures.