A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man and Dubliners - James Joyce [192]
—I wonder where did he go to, said Mr Kernan.
He wished the details of the incident to remain vague. He wished his friends to think there had been some mistake, that Mr Harford and he had missed each other. His friends, who knew quite well Mr Harford’s manners in drinking were silent. Mr Power said again:
-All’s well that ends well.
Mr Kernan changed the subject at once.
—That was a decent young chap, that medical fellow, he said. Only for him—
—0, only for him, said Mr Power, it might have been a case of seven days, without the option of a fine.
—Yes, yes, said Mr Kernan, trying to remember. I remember now there was a policeman. Decent young fellow, he seemed. How did it happen at all?
-It happened that you were peloothered, Tom, said Mr Cunningham gravely.
-True bill, said Mr Kernan, equally gravely.
—I suppose you squared the constable, Jack, said Mr M’Coy.
Mr Power did not relish the use of his Christian name. He was not straight-laced, but he could not forget that Mr M‘Coy had recently made a crusade in search of valises and portmanteaus to enable Mrs M’Coy to fulfil imaginary engagements in the country. More than he resented the fact that he had been victimised he resented such low playing of the game. He answered the question, therefore, as if Mr Kernan had asked it.
The narrative made Mr Kernan indignant. He was keenly conscious of his citizenship, wished to live with his city on terms mutually honourable and resented any affront put upon him by those whom he called country bumpkins.
-Is this what we pay ratesacg for? he asked. To feed and clothe these ignorant bostoomsach ... and they’re nothing else.
Mr Cunningham laughed. He was a Castle official only during office hours.
-How could they be anything else, Tom? he said.
He assumed a thick, provincial accent and said in a tone of command :
-65, catch your cabbage!
Everyone laughed. Mr M’Coy, who wanted to enter the conversation by any door, pretended that he had never heard the story. Mr Cunningham said:
-It is supposed—they say, you know—to take place in the depot where they get these thundering big country fellows, omadhauns,aci you know, to drill. The sergeant makes them stand in a row against the wall and hold up their plates.
He illustrated the story by grotesque gestures.
-At dinner, you know. Then he has a bloody big bowl of cabbage before him on the table and a bloody big spoon like a shovel. He takes up a wad of cabbage on the spoon and pegs it across the room and the poor devils have to try and catch it on their plates: 65, catch your cabbage.
Everyone laughed again: but Mr Kernan was somewhat indignant still. He talked of writing a letter to the papers.
-These yahoos coming up here, he said, think they can boss the people. I needn’t tell you, Martin, what kind of men they are.
Mr Cunningham gave a qualified assent.
-It’s like everything else in this world, he said. You get some bad ones and you get some good ones.
—0 yes, you get some good ones, I admit, said Mr Kernan, satisfied.
—It’s better to have nothing to say to them, said Mr M’Coy. That’s my opinion!
Mrs Kernan entered the room and, placing a tray on the table, said:
-Help yourselves, gentlemen.
Mr Power stood up to officiate, offering her his chair. She declined it, saying she was ironing downstairs, and, after having exchanged a nod with Mr Cunningham behind Mr Power’s back, prepared to leave the room. Her husband called out to her:
—And have you nothing for me, duckie?
—0, you! The back of my hand to you! said Mrs Kernan tartly.
Her husband called after her:
-Nothing for poor little hubby!
He assumed such a comical face and voice that the distribution of the bottles of stoutacj took place amid general merriment.
The gentlemen drank from their glasses, set the glasses again on the table and paused. Then Mr Cunningham turned towards Mr Power and said casually:
-On Thursday night, you said, Jack?
-Thursday, yes, said Mr Power.
—Righto! said Mr Cunningham promptly.
-We can meet in