Ivy Day in the Committee Room Page #2

								

king?”

“Our man won’t vote for the address,” said Mr O’Connor. “He goes in on
the Nationalist ticket.”

“Won’t he?” said Mr Hynes. “Wait till you see whether he will or not. I
know him. Is it Tricky Dicky Tierney?”

“By God! perhaps you’re right, Joe,” said Mr O’Connor. “Anyway, I wish
he’d turn up with the spondulics.”

The three men fell silent. The old man began to rake more cinders
together. Mr Hynes took off his hat, shook it and then turned down the
collar of his coat, displaying, as he did so, an ivy leaf in the lapel.

“If this man was alive,” he said, pointing to the leaf, “we’d have no
talk of an address of welcome.”

“That’s true,” said Mr O’Connor.

“Musha, God be with them times!” said the old man. “There was some life
in it then.”

The room was silent again. Then a bustling little man with a snuffling
nose and very cold ears pushed in the door. He walked over quickly to
the fire, rubbing his hands as if he intended to produce a spark from
them.

“No money, boys,” he said.

“Sit down here, Mr Henchy,” said the old man, offering him his chair.

“O, don’t stir, Jack, don’t stir,” said Mr Henchy.

He nodded curtly to Mr Hynes and sat down on the chair which the old
man vacated.

“Did you serve Aungier Street?” he asked Mr O’Connor.

“Yes,” said Mr O’Connor, beginning to search his pockets for memoranda.

“Did you call on Grimes?”

“I did.”

“Well? How does he stand?”

“He wouldn’t promise. He said: ‘I won’t tell anyone what way I’m going
to vote.’ But I think he’ll be all right.”

“Why so?”

“He asked me who the nominators were; and I told him. I mentioned
Father Burke’s name. I think it’ll be all right.”

Mr Henchy began to snuffle and to rub his hands over the fire at a
terrific speed. Then he said:

“For the love of God, Jack, bring us a bit of coal. There must be some
left.”

The old man went out of the room.

“It’s no go,” said Mr Henchy, shaking his head. “I asked the little
shoeboy, but he said: ‘Oh, now, Mr Henchy, when I see the work going on
properly I won’t forget you, you may be sure.’ Mean little tinker!
’Usha, how could he be anything else?”

“What did I tell you, Mat?” said Mr Hynes. “Tricky Dicky Tierney.”

“O, he’s as tricky as they make ’em,” said Mr Henchy. “He hasn’t got
those little pigs’ eyes for nothing. Blast his soul! Couldn’t he pay up
like a man instead of: ‘O, now, Mr Henchy, I must speak to Mr
Fanning.... I’ve spent a lot of money’? Mean little shoeboy of hell! I
suppose he forgets the time his little old father kept the hand-me-down
shop in Mary’s Lane.”

“But is that a fact?” asked Mr O’Connor.

“God, yes,” said Mr Henchy. “Did you never hear that? And the men used
to go in on Sunday morning before the houses were open to buy a
waistcoat or a trousers—moya! But Tricky Dicky’s little old father
always had a tricky little black bottle up in a corner. Do you mind
now? That’s that. That’s where he first saw the light.”

The old man returned with a few lumps of coal which he placed here and
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