The Poor Mouth_ A Bad Story About the Hard Life - Flann O'Brien [28]
–And how did one of them get into the water?
–How do you think? He gets out walking on this wire until he’s half-way, then he flies into a panic, gets dizzy, falls down into the deep water, hitting his head off a floating baulk of timber. And of course not one of those thooleramawns could swim. It was the mercy of God that a bailiff was within earshot. He heard the screaming and the commotion and hurried up. But an unemployed man was there first. Between the pair of them they got this half-drowned young character out of the river and held him upside-down to drain the water out of him.
–And the pinkeens, the brother interposed.
–It was a direct act of Providence that those men were there. The high-wire genius had to be lurried into hospital, Jervis Street, and there is no need to try to be funny about it. You could be facing murther today, or manslaughter.
–I’ve told you I had nothing to do with it. I know nothing. I am unaware of the facts.
–I suppose you’d swear that.
–I would.
–And you have the brazen cheek to sit there and accuse the long-suffering D.M.P. of being addicted to perjury.
–And so they are.
–Faith then, and if I was on the jury I would know who to believe about that Islandbridge affair.
–If I was charged with engineering that foolish prank, I would stop at nothing to unmask the low miscreant who has been trying to put stains on my character.
–Yes, I know right well what you mean. One lie would lead to another till you got so bogged down in mendacity and appalling perjury that the Master of the Rolls or the Recorder or whoever it would be would call a halt to the proceedings and send the papers to the Attorney-General. And faith then your fat would be in the fire. You could get five years for perjury and trying to pervert the course of justice. And the same Islandbridge case would be waiting for you when you came out.
–I don’t give a goddam about any of those people.
–Do you tell me? Well, I do. This is my house.
–You know I’m leaving it very soon.
–And Sergeant Driscoll said you were to call at College Street for an interview.
–I’ll call at no College Street. Sergeant Driscoll can go to hell.
–Stop using bad, depraved language in this house or you may leave it sooner than you think. You are very much mistaken if you think I am content to be hounded and pestered by policemen over your low and contemptible schemes to delude simple young people—
–Oh, rubbish!
–And rob them, rob them of money they never earned but filched from the purses of their long-suffering parents and guardians.
–I told you I don’t know any simple young people at Islandbridge. And any young people I do know, they’re not simple.
–You have one of the lowest and most lying tongues in all Ireland and that’s a sure fact. You are nothing but a despicable young tramp. May God forgive me if I have been in any way to blame for the way I brought you up.
–Why don’t you blame those crows, the holy Christian Brothers? God’s Disjointed.
–I have warned you several times to stop desecrating my kitchen with your cowardly blackguarding of a dedicated band of high-minded Christian teachers.
–I hear Brother Cruppy is going to throw off the collar and get married.
–Upon my word, Mr Collopy said shrilly, you are not too old to have a stick taken to. Remember that. A good thrashing would work wonders.
He was clearly very angry. The brother shrugged and said nothing but it was lucky just then that there was a knock at the outer door. It was Mr Rafferty, who at first demurred at my invitation to come in.
–I was only passing, he said. I just wanted to see Mr Collopy for a moment or two.
But he did come in. I was happy to see that the hostilities within had suddenly subsided. Mr Collopy offered his hand without rising.