Starvation was very near the two occupants of the room. They were three weeks behind with the rent, the landlord threatened to evict them; the grocer grumbled, the coal man would not supply coals. Added to this, Ellen had lost her job as charwoman in the school. The head-mistress, a dear old pious soul! had made enquiries into Ellen’s past life, and the result of the investigations was that the charwoman was told to leave the premises.
Ellen was thinking of these things one morning. Norah was tossing restlessly in the bed, when a knock came to the door.
“Come in!” Ellen cried.
A man entered, one hand deep in his trousers’ pocket, a worn cap set awkwardly on his shaggy head. He was a powerfully-built individual, broad-shouldered and heavy-limbed. He had not shaved for weeks; his beard stood out in sharp bristles from his jaw.
“Moleskin Joe, what d’ye want?” Ellen asked, her voice charged with resentment.
“Did ye know Dermod Flynn?” asked the man, gazing curiously at the woman tossing in the bed.
“I kent him.”
“I’m lookin’ for a wench—for an old sweetheart of his, so to speak,” said the man.
“It’s Dermod Flynn that he’s speakin’ about! D’ye know Dermod?” asked Norah, sitting up in bed and gazing intently at the stranger. Her cheeks flushed; all her young beauty seemed to have returned suddenly and settled in her face.
“It’s like this,” said the stranger, shuffling uneasily. “It’s like this: me and Dermod’s pals. We did graft together on many’s a shift, aye, and fought together too. And he can use his fives! Well, Dermod often told me about an old flame of his, called—her name was——”