“Och!” exclaimed a second friend, making use of my toes to see better, “the Black-and-Tans came to us the other day, and I was sitting over the fire. ‘Who’s there?’ I sez at the bang on the door. ‘Open, the military!’ sez they. ‘I will not,’ I sez. ‘We’ll have to break in,’ sez they. ‘Break away,’ I sez, ‘I don’t have to pay for it,’ I sez. ‘It’s the landlord as does,’ I sez.”
The funeral passed, the crowd dissolved; for some reason I wandered about the streets without going home. In course of time I was surprised to find it had got dark. I came across College Green, sauntered up Grafton Street, which was crowded. The mud was shining as usual, and the paper boys were shouting some catastrophe. I had come to the corner of Wicklow Street when a man turned quickly into it from Grafton Street. He was in the shadow, but I knew him anywhere. I overtook him in a stride or two.
“Good night,” I said.
“I saw you,” 47 answered, “but I was in a hurry. Come my way a little.” He slowed up.
The street was dark and nearly empty.
“They didn’t get you?”
“We saw no sign of them.”
“How’s your wife taking it?”
“She’s right enough. She’s been a bit jumpy because we’ve no arms. I’m off to the Central Hotel now to see my ‘cousin.’ Most of our lot have been called into the Central. My wife says she won’t stick it any longer unless I have a gun, so I’m off to see about one.”
“I don’t wonder at her.”