Two Gallants

The grey warm evening of August had descended upon the city, and a mild warm air, a
memory of summer, circulated in the streets. The streets, shuttered for the repose of
Sunday, swarmed with a gaily coloured crowd. Like illumined pearls the lamps shone from
the summits of their tall poles upon the living texture below, which, changing shape and hue
unceasingly, sent up into the warm grey evening air an unchanging, unceasing murmur.

Two young men came down the hill of Rutland Square. One of them was just bringing a long
monologue to a close. The other, who walked on the verge of the path and was at times
obliged to step on to the road, owing to his companion's rudeness, wore an amused, listening
face. He was squat and ruddy. A yachting cap was shoved far back from his forehead, and
the narrative to which he listened made constant waves of expression break forth over his
face from the corners of his nose and eyes and mouth. Little jets of wheezing laughter
followed one another out of his convulsed body. His eyes, twinkling with cunning enjoyment,
glanced at every moment towards his companion's face. Once or twice he rearranged the
light waterproof which he had slung over one shoulder in toreador fashion. His breeches, his
white rubber shoes, and his jauntily slung waterproof expressed youth. But his figure fell into
rotundity at the waist, his hair was scant and grey, and his face, when the waves of
expression had passed over it, had a ravaged look.

When he was quite sure that the narrative had ended he laughed noiselessly for fully half a
minute. Then he said:

`Well!... That takes the biscuit!'

His voice seemed winnowed of vigour; and to enforce his words he added with humour:

`That takes the solitary, unique, and, if I may so call it, recherché biscuit!'

He became serious and silent when he had said this. His tongue was tired, for he had been
talking all the afternoon in a public-house in Dorset Street. Most people considered Lenehan
a leech, but in spite of this reputation, his adroitness and eloquence had always prevented his
friends from forming any general policy against him. He had a brave manner of coming up to
a party of them in a bar and of holding himself nimbly at the borders of the company until he
was included in a round. He was a sporting vagrant armed with a vast stock of stories,
limericks, and riddles. He was insensitive to all kinds of discourtesy. No one knew how he
achieved the stern task of living, but his name was vaguely associated with racing tissues.

`And where did you pick her up, Corley?' he asked.

Corley ran his tongue swiftly along his upper lip.

`One night, man,' he said, `I was going along Dame Street and I spotted a fine tart under
Waterhouse's clock, and said good night, you know. So we went for a walk round by the
canal, and she told me she was a slavey in a house in Baggot Street. I put my arm round her
and squeezed her a bit that night. Then next Sunday, man, I met her by appointment. We
went out to Donnybrook and I brought her into a field there. She told me she used to go with
a dairyman... It was fine, man. Cigarettes every night she'd bring me, and paying the tram
out and back. And one night she brought me two bloody fine cigars - O, the real cheese, you
known that the old fellow used to smoke... I was afraid, man, she'd get in the family way.
But she's up to the dodge.'

`Maybe she thinks you'll marry her,' said Lenehan.

`I told her I was out of a job,' said Corley. `I told her I was in Pim's. She doesn't know my
name. I was too hairy to tell her that. But she thinks I'm a bit of class, you know.'

Lenehan laughed again, noiselessly.

`Of all the good ones ever I heard,' he said, `that emphatically takes the biscuit.'

Corley's stride acknowledged the compliment. The swing of his burly body made his friend
execute a few light skips from the path to the roadway and back again. Corley was the son
of an inspector of police, and he had inherited his father's frame and gait.' He walked with
his hands by his sides, holding himself erect and swaying his head from side to side. His head
was large, globular, and oily; it sweated in all weathers; and his large round hat, set upon it
sideways, looked like a bulb which had grown out of another. He always stared straight
before him as if he were on parade, and when he wished to gaze after someone in the street,
it was necessary for him to move his body from the hips. At present he was about town.
Whenever any job was vacant a friend was always ready to give him the hard word. He
was often to be seen walking with policemen in plain clothes, talking earnestly. He knew the
inner side of all affairs and was fond of delivering final judgements. He spoke without
listening to the speech of his companions. His conversation was mainly about himself: what
he had said to such a person and what such a person had said to him, and what he had said
to settle the matter. When he reported these dialogues he aspirated the first letter of his
name after the manner of Florentines.

Lenehan offered his friend a cigarette. As the two young men walked on through the crowd
Corley occasionally turned to smile at some of the passing girls, but Lenehan's gaze was
fixed on the large faint moon circled with a double halo. He watched earnestly the passing of
the grey web of twilight across its face. At length he said:

`Well... tell me, Corley, I suppose you'll be able to pull it off all right, eh?'

Corley closed one eye expressively as an answer.

`Is she game for that?' asked Lenehan dubiously. `You can never know women.'

`She's all right,' said Corley. `I know the way to get around her, man. She's a bit gone on
me.'

`You're what I call a gay Lothario,' said Lenehan. `And the proper kind of a Lothario, too!'

A shade of mockery relieved the servility of his manner. To save himself he had the habit of
leaving his flattery open to the interpretation of raillery. But Corley had not a subtle mind.

`There's nothing to touch a good slavey,' he affirmed. `Take my tip for it.'

`By one who has tried them all,' said Lenehan.

`First I used to go with girls, you know,' said Corley, unbosoming; `girls off the South
Circular. I used to take them out, man, on the tram somewhere and pay the tram, or take
them to a band or a play at the theatre, or buy them chocolate and sweets or something that
way. I used to spend money on them right enough,' he added, in a convincing tone, as if he
was conscious of being disbelieved.

But Lenehan could well believe it; he nodded gravely.

`I know that game,' he said, `and it's a mug's game.'

`And damn the thing I ever got out of it,' said Corley.

`Ditto here,' said Lenehan.

`Only off of one of them,' said Corley.

He moistened his upper lip by running his tongue along it. The recollection brightened his
eyes. He, too, gazed at the pale disc of the moon, now nearly veiled, and seemed to
meditate.

`She was... a bit of all right,' he said regretfully.

He was silent again. Then he added:

`She's on the turf now. I saw her driving down Earl Street one night with two fellows with
her on a car.'

`I suppose that's your doing,' said Lenehan.

`There was others at her before me,' said Corley philosophically.

This time Lenehan was inclined to disbelieve. He shook his head to and fro and smiled.

`You know you can't kid me, Corley,' he said.

`Honest to God!' said Corley. `Didn't she tell me herself?'

Lenehan made a tragic gesture.

`Base betrayer!' he said.

As they passed along the railings of Trinity College, Lenehan skipped out into the road and
peered up at the clock.

`Twenty after,' he said.

`Time enough,' said Corley. `She'll be there all right. I always let her wait a bit.'

Lenehan laughed quietly.

`Ecod! Corley, you know how to take them,' he said.

`I'm up to all their little tricks,' Corley confessed.

`But tell me,' said Lenehan again, `are you sure you can bring it off all right? You know it's a
ticklish job. They're damn close on that point. Eh?... What?'

His bright small eyes searched his companion's face for reassurance. Corley swung his head
to and fro as if to toss aside an insistent insect, and his brows gathered.

`I'll pull it off,' he said. `Leave it to me, can't you?'

Lenehan said no more. He did not wish to ruffle his friend's temper, to be sent to the devil
and told that his advice was not wanted. A little tact was necessary. But Corley's brow was
soon smooth again. His thoughts were running another way.

`She's a fine decent tart,' he said, with appreciation; `that's what she is.'

They walked along Nassau Street and then turned into Kildare Street. Not far from the
porch of the club a harpist stood in the roadway, playing to a little ring of listeners. He
plucked at the wires heedlessly, glancing quickly from time to time at the face of each
new-comer and from time to time, wearily also, at the sky. His harp, too, heedless that her
coverings had fallen about her knees, seemed weary alike of the eyes of strangers and of
her master's hands. One hand played in the bass the melody of Silent, O Moyle, while the
other hand careered in the treble after each group of notes. The notes of the air sounded
deep and full.

The two young men walked up the street without speaking, the mournful music following
them. When they reached Stephen's Green they crossed the road. Here the noise of trams,
the lights, and the crowd, released them from their silence.

`There she is!' said Corley.

At the corner of Hume Street a young woman was standing. She wore a blue dress and a
white sailor hat. She stood on the kerbstone, swinging a sunshade in one hand. Lenehan
grew lively.

`Let's have a look at her, Corley,' he said.

Corley glanced sideways at his friend, and an unpleasant grin appeared on his face.

`Are you trying to get inside me?' he asked.

`Damn it!' said Lenehan boldly, `I don't want an introduction. All I want is to have a look at
her. I'm not going to eat her.'

`O... A look at her?' said Corley, more amiably. `Well. I'll tell you what. I'll go over and talk
to her and you can pass by.'

`Right!' said Lenehan.

Corley had already thrown one leg over the chains when Lenehan called out:

`And after? Where will we meet?'

`Half ten,' answered Corley, bringing over his other leg.

`Where?'

`Corner of Merrion Street. We'll be coming back.'

`Work it all right now,' said Lenehan in farewell.

Corley did not answer. He sauntered across the road swaying his head from side to side. His
bulk, his easy pace, and the solid sound of his boots had something of the conqueror in them.
He approached the young woman and, without saluting, began at once to converse with her.
She swung her umbrella more quickly and executed half turns on her heels. Once or twice
when he spoke to her at close quarters she laughed and bent her head.

Lenehan observed them for a few minutes. Then he walked rapidly along beside the chains
at some distance and crossed the road obliquely. As he approached Hume Street corner he
found the air heavily scented, and his eyes made a swift anxious scrutiny of the young
woman's appearance. She had her Sunday finery on. Her blue serge skirt was held at the
waist by a belt of black leather. The great silver buckle of her belt seemed to depress the
centre of her body, catching the light stuff of her white blouse like a clip. She wore a short
black jacket with mother-of-pearl buttons, and a ragged black boa. The ends of her tulle
collarette had been carefully disordered and a big bunch of red flowers was pinned in her
bosom stems upwards. Lenehan's eyes noted approvingly her stout short muscular body.
Frank rude health glowed in her face, on her fat red cheeks and in her unabashed blue eyes.
Her features were blunt. She had broad nostrils, a straggling mouth which lay open in a
contented leer, and two projecting front teeth. As he passed Lenehan took off his cap, and,
after about ten seconds, Corley returned a salute to the air. This he did by raising his hand
vaguely and pensively changing the angle of position of his hat.

Lenehan walked as far as the Shelbourne Hotel, where he halted and waited. After waiting
for a little time he saw them coming towards him and, when they turned to the right, he
followed them, stepping lightly in his white shoes, down one side of Merrion Square. As he
walked on slowly, timing his pace to theirs, he watched Corley's head which turned at every
moment towards the young woman's face like a big ball revolving on a pivot. He kept the
pair in view until he had seen them climbing the stairs of the Donnybrook tram; then he
turned about and went back the way he had come.

Now that he was alone his face looked older. His gaiety seemed to forsake him, and as he
came by the railings of the Duke's Lawn he allowed his hand to run along them. The air
which the harpist had played began to control his movements. His softly padded feet played
the melody while his fingers swept a scale of variations idly along the railings after each
group of notes.

He walked listlessly round Stephen's Green and then down Grafton Street. Though his eyes
took note of many elements of the crowd through which he passed, they did so morosely. He
found trivial all that was meant to charm him, and did not answer the glances which invited
him to be bold. He knew that he would have to speak a great deal, to invent and to amuse,
and his brain and throat were too dry for such a task. The problem of how he could pass the
hours till he met Corley again troubled him a little. He could think of no way of passing them
but to keep on walking. He turned to the left when he came to the corner of Rutland Square,
and felt more at ease in the dark quiet street, the sombre look of which suited his mood. He
paused at last before the window of a poor-looking shop over which the words Refreshment
Bar were printed in white letters. On the glass of the window were two flying inscriptions:
Ginger Beer and Ginger Ale. A Cut ham was exposed on a great blue dish, while near it on
a plate lay a segment of very light plum-pudding. He eyed this food earnestly for some time,
and then, after glancing warily up and down the street, went into the shop quickly.

He was hungry, for, except some biscuits which he had asked two grudging curates to bring
him, he had eaten nothing since breakfast-time. He sat down at an uncovered wooden table
opposite two work-girls and a mechanic. A slatternly girl waited on him.

`How much is a plate of peas?' he asked.

`Three halfpence, sir,' said the girl.

`Bring me a plate of peas,' he said, `and a bottle of ginger beer.'

He spoke roughly in order to belie his air of gentility, for his entry had been followed by a
pause of talk. His face was heated. To appear natural he pushed his cap back on his head
and planted his elbows on the table. The mechanic and the two work-girls examined him
point by point before resuming their conversation in a subdued voice. The girl brought him a
plate of grocer's hot peas, seasoned with pepper and vinegar, a fork, and his ginger beer. He
ate his food greedily and found it so good that he made a note of the shop mentally. When he
had eaten all the peas he sipped his ginger beer and sat for some time thinking of Corley's
adventure. In his imagination he beheld the pair of lovers walking along some dark road; he
heard Corley's voice in deep energetic gallantries, and saw again the leer of the young
woman's mouth. This vision made him feel keenly his own poverty of purse and spirit. He
was tired of knocking about, of pulling the devil by the tail, of shifts and intrigues. He would
be thirty-one in November. Would he never get a good job? Would he never have a home of
his own? He thought how pleasant it would be to have a warm fire to sit by and a good
dinner to sit down to. He had walked the streets long enough with friends and with girls. He
knew what those friends were worth: he knew the girls too. Experience had embittered his
heart against the world. But all hope had not left him. He felt better after having eaten than
he had felt before, less weary of his life, less vanquished in spirit. He might yet be able to
settle down in some snug corner and live happily if he could only come across some good
simple-minded girl with a little of the ready.

He paid twopence halfpenny to the slatternly girl, and went out of the shop to begin his
wandering again. He went into Capel Street and walked along towards the City Hall. Then
he turned into Dame Street. At the corner of George's Street he met two friends of his, and
stopped to converse with them. He was glad that he could rest from all his walking. His
friends asked him had he seen Corley, and what was the latest. He replied that he had spent
the day with Corley. His friends talked very little. They looked vacantly after some figures in
the crowd, and sometimes made a critical remark. One said that he had seen Mac an hour
before in Westmoreland Street. At this Lenehan said that he had been with Mac the night
before in Egan's. The young man who had seen Mac in Westmoreland Street asked was it
true that Mac had won a bit over a billiards match. Lenehan did not know: he said that
Holohan had stood them drinks in Egan's.

He left his friends at a quarter to ten and went up George's Street. He turned to the left at
the City Markets and walked on into Grafton Street. The crowd of girls and young men had
thinned, and on his way up the street he heard many groups and couples bidding one another
good night. He went as far as the clock of the College of Surgeons: it was on the stroke of
ten. He set off briskly along the northern side of the Green, hurrying for fear Corley should
return too soon. When he reached the corner of Merrion Street he took his stand in the
shadow of a lamp, and brought out one of the cigarettes which he had reserved and lit it. He
leaned against the lamp-post and kept his gaze fixed on the part from which he expected to
see Corley and the young woman return.

His mind became active again. He wondered had Corley managed it successfully. He
wondered if he had asked her yet or if he would leave it to the last. He suffered all the
pangs and thrills of his friend's situation as well as those of his own. But the memory of
Corley's slowly revolving head calmed him somewhat: he was sure Corley would pull it off
all right. All at once the idea struck him that perhaps Corley had seen her home by another
way, and given him the slip. His eyes searched the street: there was no sign of them. Yet it
was surely half an hour since he had seen the clock of the College of Surgeons. Would
Corley do a thing like that? He lit his Fast cigarette and began to smoke it nervously. He
strained his eyes as each tram stopped at the far corner of the square. They must have gone
home by another way. The paper of his cigarette broke and he flung it into the road with a
curse.

Suddenly he saw them coming towards him. He started with delight, and keeping close to his
lamp-post tried to read the result in their walk. They were walking quickly, the young woman
taking quick short steps, while Corley kept beside her with his long stride. They did not seem
to be speaking. An intimation of the result pricked him like the point of a sharp instrument.
He knew Corley would fail; he knew it was no go.

They turned down Baggot Street, and he followed them at once, taking the other footpath.
When they stopped he stopped too. They talked for a few moments, and then the young
woman went down the steps into the area of a house. Corley remained standing at the edge
of the path, a little distance from the front steps. Some minutes passed. Then the hall-door
was opened slowly and cautiously. A woman came running down the front steps and
coughed. Corley turned and went towards her. His broad figure hid hers from view for a
few seconds and then she reappeared, running up the steps. The door closed on her, and
Corley began to walk swiftly towards Stephen's Green.

Lenehan hurried on in the same direction. Some drops of light rain fell. He took them as a
warning, and glancing back towards the house which the young woman had entered to see
that he was not observed, he ran eagerly across the road. Anxiety and his swift run made
him pant. He called out:

`Hallo, Corley!'

Corley turned his head to see who had called him, and then continued walking as before.
Lenehan ran after him, settling the waterproof on his shoulders with one hand.

`Hallo, Corley!' he cried again.

He came level with his friend and looked keenly in his face. He could see nothing there.

`Well?' he said. `Did it come off?'

They had reached the corner of Ely Place. Still without answering, Corley swerved to the
left and went up the side street. His features were composed in stern calm. Lenehan kept up
with his friend, breathing uneasily. He was baffled, and a note of menace pierced through his
voice.

`Can't you tell us?' he said. `Did you try her?'

Corley halted at the first lamp and stared grimly before him. Then with a grave gesture he
extended a hand towards the light and, smiling, opened it slowly to the gaze of his disciple. A
small gold coin shone in the palm.