“Ah! that’s it! The Catholics are the best, and I’m one meself just as ye are, girsha. Have ye a penny to spare for one of yer own kind?”
“Are ye goin’ back to Ireland again?” asked Norah, drawing the weasel-skin purse from the pocket of her steaming dress.
“If only I had the price of the boat, I’d go in a minute,” said the man, fixing greedy eyes on the purse which Norah held in her hand. “But I’m very poor, and mind ye I’m one of yer own sort. Maybe ye have a sixpence to spare,” he said.
Norah possessed a two-shilling piece, all the money she had in the world, and she needed it badly herself. But the desire to help the old man overmastered her, and she handed him the florin. Followed by the garrulous thanks of her penniless countryman she hurried back to the byre, feeling in some curious way ashamed of her kindness.
III
A candle fixed on the top of a stanchion threw a dim light over the byre, and long black shadows danced on roof and wall. A strong, unhealthy odour pervaded the whole building; the tap at one end was running, and as the screw had been broken the water could not be turned off. Micky’s Jim sat in a cattle-trough sewing bags together with a packing needle; these were to be used as a quilt. Dermod Flynn, who was undressing, slipped beneath the blankets with his trousers still on as Norah Ryan came in, but Willie the Duck, stripped to the pelt, stood for a moment laughing stupidly, the guttering candle lighting up his narrow, hairy face and sunken chest.
Old Owen Kelly was already in bed.
“This place is a lot better than where we slept last year,” he called to Micky’s Jim.
“Where did ye sleep last year?” asked Dermod Flynn.
“In the pig-sty,” said Jim. “We were almost eaten alive by the blue lice.”