The Italian and the Irishman were talking together. The Irishman came down to Shane and said: “Jack’s upstairs, asleep. Wha’d you want to see him about?”
“You’d better wake him up — I want to tell him how to keep out of the can.” Shane tasted the beer, said: “That’s lousy — give me a glass of water.”
The Irishman looked at him suspiciously for a minute, put a glass of water on the bar, went to the door at the end of the room. He said: “Who’ll I say it is?”
“Shane.”
The Irishman disappeared through the door.
He was back in a little while, said: “You can go on up — it’s the open door at the top of the stairs.”
Shane went back and through the door, across a dark, airless hallway. He lighted a match and found the bottom of the stair, went up. There was a door ajar at the top of the stair through which faint light came, he shoved it open, went in.
Jack Kenny was big and round and bald. He was sitting deep in a worn and battered wicker armchair. He was very drunk.
There was another man, lying face down across the dirty, unmade bed. He was snoring loudly, occasionally exhaled in a long sighing whistle.
Kenny lifted his chin from his chest, lifted bleary eyes to Shane. He said: “Hi, boy?”