Ivy Day in the Committee Room

								
Old Jack raked the cinders together with a piece of cardboard and
spread them judiciously over the whitening dome of coals. When the dome
was thinly covered his face lapsed into darkness but, as he set himself
to fan the fire again, his crouching shadow ascended the opposite wall
and his face slowly re-emerged into light. It was an old man’s face,
very bony and hairy. The moist blue eyes blinked at the fire and the
moist mouth fell open at times, munching once or twice mechanically
when it closed. When the cinders had caught he laid the piece of
cardboard against the wall, sighed and said:

“That’s better now, Mr O’Connor.”

Mr O’Connor, a grey-haired young man, whose face was disfigured by many
blotches and pimples, had just brought the tobacco for a cigarette into
a shapely cylinder but when spoken to he undid his handiwork
meditatively. Then he began to roll the tobacco again meditatively and
after a moment’s thought decided to lick the paper.

“Did Mr Tierney say when he’d be back?” he asked in a husky falsetto.

“He didn’t say.”

Mr O’Connor put his cigarette into his mouth and began to search his
pockets. He took out a pack of thin pasteboard cards.

“I’ll get you a match,” said the old man.

“Never mind, this’ll do,” said Mr O’Connor.

He selected one of the cards and read what was printed on it:

     MUNICIPAL ELECTIONS

     ROYAL EXCHANGE WARD

Mr Richard J. Tierney, P.L.G., respectfully solicits the favour of your
vote and influence at the coming election in the Royal Exchange Ward.

Mr O’Connor had been engaged by Tierney’s agent to canvass one part of
the ward but, as the weather was inclement and his boots let in the
wet, he spent a great part of the day sitting by the fire in the
Committee Room in Wicklow Street with Jack, the old caretaker. They had
been sitting thus since the short day had grown dark. It was the sixth
of October, dismal and cold out of doors.

Mr O’Connor tore a strip off the card and, lighting it, lit his
cigarette. As he did so the flame lit up a leaf of dark glossy ivy in
the lapel of his coat. The old man watched him attentively and then,
taking up the piece of cardboard again, began to fan the fire slowly
while his companion smoked.

“Ah, yes,” he said, continuing, “it’s hard to know what way to bring up
children. Now who’d think he’d turn out like that! I sent him to the
Christian Brothers and I done what I could for him, and there he goes
boosing about. I tried to make him someway decent.”

He replaced the cardboard wearily.

“Only I’m an old man now I’d change his tune for him. I’d take the
stick to his back and beat him while I could stand over him—as I done
many a time before. The mother, you know, she cocks him up with this
and that....”

“That’s what ruins children,” said Mr O’Connor.

“To be sure it is,” said the old man. “And little thanks you get for
it, only impudence. He takes th’upper hand of me whenever he sees I’ve
a sup taken. What’s the world coming to when sons speaks that way to
their father?”

“What age is he?” said Mr O’Connor.

“Nineteen,” said the old man.

“Why don’t you put him to something?”

“Sure, amn’t I never done at the drunken bowsy ever since he left
school? ‘I won’t keep you,’ I says. ‘You must get a job for yourself.’
But, sure, it’s worse whenever he gets a job; he drinks it all.”

Mr O’Connor shook his head in sympathy, and the old man fell silent,
gazing into the fire. Someone opened the door of the room and called
out:

“Hello! Is this a Freemasons’ meeting?”

“Who’s that?” said the old man.

“What are you doing in the dark?” asked a voice.

“Is that you, Hynes?” asked Mr O’Connor.

“Yes. What are you doing in the dark?” said Mr Hynes advancing into
the light of the fire.

He was a tall, slender young man with a light brown moustache. Imminent
little drops of rain hung at the brim of his hat and the collar of his
jacket-coat was turned up.

“Well, Mat,” he said to Mr O’Connor, “how goes it?”

Mr O’Connor shook his head. The old man left the hearth and, after
stumbling about the room returned with two candlesticks which he thrust
one after the other into the fire and carried to the table. A denuded
room came into view and the fire lost all its cheerful colour. The
walls of the room were bare except for a copy of an election address.
In the middle of the room was a small table on which papers were
heaped.

Mr Hynes leaned against the mantelpiece and asked:

“Has he paid you yet?”

“Not yet,” said Mr O’Connor. “I hope to God he’ll not leave us in the
lurch tonight.”

Mr Hynes laughed.

“O, he’ll pay you. Never fear,” he said.

“I hope he’ll look smart about it if he means business,” said Mr
O’Connor.

“What do you think, Jack?” said Mr Hynes satirically to the old man.

The old man returned to his seat by the fire, saying:

“It isn’t but he has it, anyway. Not like the other tinker.”

“What other tinker?” said Mr Hynes.

“Colgan,” said the old man scornfully.

“It is because Colgan’s a working-man you say that? What’s the
difference between a good honest bricklayer and a publican—eh? Hasn’t
the working-man as good a right to be in the Corporation as anyone
else—ay, and a better right than those shoneens that are always hat in
hand before any fellow with a handle to his name? Isn’t that so, Mat?”
said Mr Hynes, addressing Mr O’Connor.

“I think you’re right,” said Mr O’Connor.

“One man is a plain honest man with no hunker-sliding about him. He
goes in to represent the labour classes. This fellow you’re working for
only wants to get some job or other.”

“Of course, the working-classes should be represented,” said the old
man.

“The working-man,” said Mr Hynes, “gets all kicks and no halfpence. But
it’s labour produces everything. The working-man is not looking for fat
jobs for his sons and nephews and cousins. The working-man is not going
to drag the honour of Dublin in the mud to please a German monarch.”

“How’s that?” said the old man.

“Don’t you know they want to present an address of welcome to Edward
Rex if he comes here next year? What do we want kowtowing to a foreign

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