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‘”What d’ye think of that?” he says, handing the summons across the bar. “What d’ye think of me lovely Dinny Murphy now?”

‘”Why, what’s this all about?”

‘”That’s what I want to know. I borrowed a five-pound-note off of him a fortnight ago when I was drunk, an’ now he sends me that.”

‘”Well, I never would have dream’d that of Dinny,” says the cousin, scratching his head and blinking. “What’s come over him at all?”

‘”That’s what I want to know.”

‘”What have you been doing to the man?”

‘”Divil a thing that I’m aware of.”

‘The cousin rubbed his chin-tuft between his forefinger and thumb.

‘”Well, what am I to do about it?” asked the Flour impatiently.

‘”Do? Pay the man, of course?”

‘”How can I pay the lovely man when I haven’t got the price of a drink about me?”

‘The cousin scratched his chin.

‘”Well–here, I’ll lend you a five-pound-note for a month or two. Go and pay the man, and get back to work.”

‘And the Flour went and found Dinny Murphy, and the pair of them had a howling spree together up at Brady’s, the opposition pub. And the cousin said he thought all the time he was being had.

. . . . .

‘He was nasty sometimes, when he was about half drunk. For instance, he’d come on the ground when the Orewell sports were in full swing and walk round, soliloquising just loud enough for you to hear; and just when a big event was coming off he’d pass within earshot of some committee men–who had been bursting themselves for weeks to work the thing up and make it a success–saying to himself–

‘”Where’s the Orewell sports that I hear so much about? I don’t see them! Can any one direct me to the Orewell sports?”

‘Or he’d pass a raffle, lottery, lucky-bag, or golden-barrel business of some sort,–

‘”No gamblin’ for the Flour. I don’t believe in their little shwindles. It ought to be shtopped. Leadin’ young people ashtray.”

‘Or he’d pass an Englishman he didn’t like,–

‘”Look at Jinneral Roberts! He’s a man! He’s an Irishman! England has to come to Ireland for its Jinnerals! Luk at Jinneral Roberts in the marshes of Candyhar!”

*****

‘They always had sports at Orewell Creek on New Year’s Day–except once–and old Duncan was always there,–never missed it till the day he died. He was a digger, a humorous and good-hearted “hard-case”. They all knew “old Duncan”.

‘But one New Year’s Eve he didn’t turn up, and was missed at once. “Where’s old Duncan? Any one seen old Duncan?” “Oh, he’ll turn up alright.” They inquired, and argued, and waited, but Duncan didn’t come.

‘Duncan was working at Duffers. The boys inquired of fellows who came from Duffers, but they hadn’t seen him for two days. They had fully expected to find him at the creek. He wasn’t at Aliaura nor Notown. They inquired of men who came from Nelson Creek, but Duncan wasn’t there.

‘”There’s something happened to the lovely man,” said the Flour of Wheat at last. “Some of us had better see about it.”

‘Pretty soon this was the general opinion, and so a party started out over the hills to Duffers before daylight in the morning, headed by the Flour.

‘The door of Duncan’s “whare” was closed–BUT NOT PADLOCKED. The Flour noticed this, gave his head a jerk, opened the door, and went in. The hut was tidied up and swept out–even the fireplace. Duncan had “lifted the boxes” and “cleaned up”, and his little bag of gold stood on a shelf by his side–all ready for his spree. On the table lay a clean neckerchief folded ready to tie on. The blankets had been folded neatly and laid on the bunk, and on them was stretched Old Duncan, with his arms lying crossed on his chest, and one foot–with a boot on–resting on the ground. He had his “clean things” on, and was dressed except for one boot, the necktie, and his hat. Heart disease.