Toole and O'Flaherty were standing in the doorway of the Phœnix, observing the brief and secret meeting under the elm.
'That's Sturk,' said Toole.
O'Flaherty grunted acquiescence.
Toole watched attentively till the gentlemen separated, and then glancing on O'Flaherty from the corner of his eye, with a knowing smile, 'tipped him the wink,' as the phrase went in those days.
'An affair of honour?' said O'Flaherty, squaring himself. He smelt powder in everything.
'More like an affair of dishonour,' said Toole, buttoning his coat. 'He's been "kiting" all over the town. Nutter can distrain for his rent to-morrow, and Cluffe called him outside the bar to speak with him; put that and that together, Sir.' And home went Toole.
Sturk, indeed, had no plan, and was just then incapable of forming any. He changed his route, not knowing why, and posted over the bridge, and a good way along the Inchicore road, and then turned about and strode back again and over the bridge, without stopping, and on towards Dublin; and suddenly the moon shone out, and he recollected how late it was growing, and so turned about and walked homeward.
As he passed by the row of houses looking across the road towards the river, from Mr. Irons's hall-door step a well-known voice accosted him—
'A thweet night, doctor—the moon tho thilver bright—the air tho thoft!'
It was little Puddock, whose hand and face were raised toward the sweet regent of the sky.