CHRISTY
Thirty years.
TOURNOUR Twenty-nine years. I was born in the workhouse, and I mind when the Master came in to it. Whist now, here he is, and time for him.
He falls into an officious manner. He closes up the stove and puts bucket away. Then he goes over to desk, and, with his foot on the rung of the office stool, he turns the gas on full. Christy Clarke gets out of armchair, and begins to arrange the periodicals that are on wooden chair. The corridor door opens. The man who appears is not the Master, however. He is the blind piper, Myles Gorman, who is dressed in the pauper garb. Myles Gorman is a Gael of the West of Ireland, with a face full of intellectual vigour. He is about sixty, and carries himself with energy. His face is pale and he has a fringe of a white beard. The eye-balls in his head are contracted, but it is evident he has some vestiges of sight. Before the others are aware who he is, he has advanced into the room. He stands there now turning the attentive face of the blind.
GORMAN
Mister Muskerry! Are you there, Mister Muskerry?
TOURNOUR
What do you want, my oul' fellow?
GORMAN (with a puzzled look) Well, now, I've a favour to ask of your honour.
TOURNOUR
Be off out of this to your ward.
GORMAN
Is that Mister Muskerry?
CHRISTY
Mister Muskerry isn't here.
GORMAN
And who am I talking to?