Peter Walsh slid off the window sill of Brannigan’s shop and took a long look at the sky. Having satisfied himself that its appearance was very much what he expected he walked down the quay to the place where Kinsella was sitting.
“It’s a fine evening,” he said.
“It is,” said Kinsella, “as fine an evening as you’d see, thanks be to God.”
Peter Walsh sat down beside his friend and spat into the boat beneath him.
“I seen the sergeant talking to you,” he said.
“That same sergeant has mighty little to do,” said Kinsella.
“It’ll be as well for us if he hasn’t more one of these days.”
“What do you mean by that, Peter Walsh?”
“What might he have been talking to you about?”
“Gravel, no less.”