• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

By Root 431 0

to reach the heart, to tell of love? Very likely it was quite impossible for the like of myself to attempt anything of the kind, though the brother could be trusted to explain the art and simplify it in six easy lessons by correspondence. Of course I never raised the matter with him, for he would only make me angry. Penelope? I meditated on the name. I remembered that Penelope was the wife of Ulysses and no matter how many libertines assailed her while her good man was away at the wars, she was ever faithful to him. She would consider yielding to their low and improper solicitations, she said, as soon as she had her knitting finished. Every night she would unravel whatever bit of it she had done during the day, so that the task was never accomplished. Just what was that as an attitude? Deep and pure love, of course. With more than a little touch of cunning, perhaps. Did my own lovely Penelope have both those qualities. Well, I would see her later on that night.

When the tea things had been cleared away, Mr Collopy resumed reading his paper but after a time, he suddenly sat up and glared at the brother, who was dozing opposite him at the range.

–I want a word with you, mister-me-friend, he said abruptly.

The brother sat up.

–Well? he said. I’m here.

–Do you know a certain party by the name of Sergeant Driscoll of the D.M.P.?

–I don’t know any policemen. I keep far away from them. They’re a dangerous gang, promoted at a speed that is proportionate to the number of people they manage to get into trouble. And they have one way of getting the most respectable people into very bad trouble.

–Well, is that a fact? And what is the one way?

–Perjury. They’d swear a hole in an iron bucket. They are all the sons of gobhawks from down the country.

–I mentioned Sergeant Driscoll of the D.M.P.—

–The wilds of Kerry, I’ll go bail. The banatee up at six in the morning to get ready thirteen breakfasts out of a load of spuds, maybe a few leaves of kale, injun meal, salt and buttermilk. Breakfast for Herself, Himself, the eight babies and the three pigs, all out of the one pot. That’s the sort of cods we have looking after law and order in Dublin.

–I mentioned Sergeant Driscoll of the D.M.P. He was here this morning. Gold help me, being interviewed by the police has been my cross, and at my time of life.

–Well, it is a good rule never to make any statement. Don’t give him the satisfaction. Say that you first must see your solicitor, no matter what he is accusing you of.

–Accusing me of? It had nothing to do with me. It was you he was looking for. He was making inquiries. There may yet be deleterious ructions, you can take my word for that.

–What, me? And what have I done?

–A young lad fell into the river at Islandbridge, hurt his head and was nearly drowned. He had to be brought to hospital. Sergeant Driscoll and his men questioned this lad and the other young hooligans with him. And your name was mentioned.

–I know nothing about any young lads at Islandbridge.

–Then how did they get your name? They even knew this address, and the Sergeant said they had a little book with this address here on the cover.

–Did you see the book?

–No.

–This is the work of some pultogue that doesn’t like me, one that has it in for me over some imaginary grievance. A trouble-maker. This town is full of them. I’m damn glad I’m clearing out. Give me a blood-thirsty and depraved Saxon any day.

–I’ve never known you not to have an answer. You are the right stainless man.

–I refuse to be worried about what brats from the slums say or think, or at country rozzers either.

–Those youngsters, Sergeant Driscoll said, were experimenting with a frightfully dangerous contraption, a sort of death machine. They had fixed a wire across the Liffey, made fast to lamp-posts or trees on either side. And this young bosthoon gets his feet into a pair of special slippers or something of the kind. What do you think of that?

–Nothing much, except it reminds me of a circus.

–Yes, or The Dance Of Death at the Empire Theatre at Christmas. Lord look down on us but I never