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“Is that you, Hynes?” asked Mr. O’Connor.

“Yes. What are you doing in the dark?” said Mr. Hynes. advancing into the light of the fire.

He was a tall, slender young man with a light brown moustache. Imminent little drops of rain hung at the brim of his hat and the collar of his jacket-coat was turned up.

“Well, Mat,” he said to Mr. O’Connor, “how goes it?”

Mr. O’Connor shook his head. The old man left the hearth and after stumbling about the room returned with two candlesticks which he thrust one after the other into the fire and carried to the table. A denuded room came into view and the fire lost all its cheerful colour. The walls of the room were bare except for a copy of an election address. In the middle of the room was a small table on which papers were heaped.

Mr. Hynes leaned against the mantelpiece and asked:

“Has he paid you yet?”

“Not yet,” said Mr. O’Connor. “I hope to God he’ll not leave us in the lurch tonight.”

Mr. Hynes laughed.

“O, he’ll pay you. Never fear,” he said.

“I hope he’ll look smart about it if he means business,” said Mr. O’Connor.

“What do you think, Jack?” said Mr. Hynes satirically to the old man.

The old man returned to his seat by the fire, saying:

“It isn’t but he has it, anyway. Not like the other tinker.”

“What other tinker?” said Mr. Hynes.

“Colgan,” said the old man scornfully.

“It is because Colgan’s a working–man you say that? What’s the difference between a good honest bricklayer and a publican–eh? Hasn’t the working-man as good a right to be in the Corporation as anyone else–ay, and a better right than those shoneens that are always hat in hand before any fellow with a handle to his name? Isn’t that so, Mat?” said Mr. Hynes, addressing Mr. O’Connor.

“I think you’re right,” said Mr. O’Connor.

“One man is a plain honest man with no hunker-sliding about him. He goes in to represent the labour classes. This fellow you’re working for only wants to get some job or other.”

“0f course, the working-classes should be represented,” said the old man.

“The working-man,” said Mr. Hynes, “gets all kicks and no halfpence. But it’s labour produces everything. The workingman is not looking for fat jobs for his sons and nephews and cousins. The working-man is not going to drag the honour of Dublin in the mud to please a German monarch.”

“How’s that?” said the old man.

“Don’t you know they want to present an address of welcome to Edward Rex if he comes here next year? What do we want kowtowing to a foreign king?”

“Our man won’t vote for the address,” said Mr. O’Connor. “He goes in on the Nationalist ticket.”

“Won’t he?” said Mr. Hynes. “Wait till you see whether he will or not. I know him. Is it Tricky Dicky Tierney?”

“By God! perhaps you’re right, Joe,” said Mr. O’Connor. “Anyway, I wish he’d turn up with the spondulics.”

The three men fell silent. The old man began to rake more cinders together. Mr. Hynes took off his hat, shook it and then turned down the collar of his coat, displaying, as he did so, an ivy leaf in the lapel.

“If this man was alive,” he said, pointing to the leaf, “we’d have no talk of an address of welcome.”

“That’s true,” said Mr. O’Connor.

“Musha, God be with them times!” said the old man. “There was some life in it then.”

The room was silent again. Then a bustling little man with a snuffling nose and very cold ears pushed in the door. He walked over quickly to the fire, rubbing his hands as if he intended to produce a spark from them.

“No money, boys,” he said.

“Sit down here, Mr. Henchy,” said the old man, offering him his chair.

“O, don’t stir, Jack, don’t stir,” said Mr. Henchy

He nodded curtly to Mr. Hynes and sat down on the chair which the old man vacated.

“Did you serve Aungier Street?” he asked Mr. O’Connor.