The Informer

in opposition to her father, in defence of her dead brother. Perhaps it was the audience she had behind her. Because, strangely enough, she herself hated Frankie for belonging to the Revolutionary Organization, since she got a position two years before as clerk in the offices of Gogarty and Hogan. Before that she had been a revolutionary herself, but not a member of any organization. She used to attend meetings and cheer and get into arguments with irritated old gentlemen, etc. But during the past two years her outlook on life had undergone a subtle change, gradual but definite. At first she began to get “disillusioned,” as she used to tell Francis, with the blasé air of a young girl of nineteen. Then she used to lecture him on the desirability of keeping better company. This was at the time when she made the acquaintance of Joseph Augustine Short, a young gentleman who was serving his apprenticeship with Gogarty and Hogan and wore plus fours and left Harcourt Street Station every Sunday morning, to play golf down the country somewhere. Finally, she became opposed violently “to the whole theory of revolution,” as being degenerating and “subversive of all moral ideas.” She became religious and got the idea into her head that she could convert Commandant Dan Gallagher, the leader of the revolutionary movement. All this later development had been quite recent, however, and had not matured fully in her character. It was yet merely plastic. It had not become a fixed habit of thought, surrounded by deep and bitter prejudices, that form themselves into “firm convictions.”

For that reason she had responded suddenly to that strange exaltation, born of hatred for the law, which is traditional and hereditary in the slums. The one glorious romance of the slums is the feeling of intense hatred against the oppressive hand of the law, which sometimes stretches out to strike someone, during a street row, during an industrial dispute, during a Nationalist uprising. It is a clarion call to all the spiritual emotion that finds no other means of expression in that sordid environment, neither in art, nor in industry, nor in commercial undertakings, nor in the more reasonable searchings for a religious understanding of the universal creation.

“I stand by what Frankie has done,” she cried, turning to the people. “I don’t agree with him in politics, but every man has a right to his opinions and every man should fight for his rights according to⁠ ⁠…” she got confused and stammered a little. Then she raised her hand suddenly with an enthusiastic gesture and cried in a loud voice: “He was my brother anyway and I’m going to stand up for him.”

Then she suddenly put her handkerchief to her nose and blew it fiercely. There was a loud murmur of applause. The father made a halfhearted attempt to say something, but he subsided. Mrs. McPhillip was heard to mumble something, but nobody paid any attention to her. Nobody noticed her except Gypo, who still sat on the floor staring at her, fondling the memory of her past goodness to him, like a sumptuous luxury that he must soon relinquish. Although he had been the cause of all the excitement, he was now forgotten in the still greater excitement, caused by the argument between the father and daughter of the dead revolutionary.

Then Mary turned to Gypo and addressed him.

“If you were a friend of my brother,” she said, “you are quite welcome here. Come into the parlour a minute. I want to talk to you.”

Gypo started and looked at Mary with his tufted eyebrows twitching ominously like snouts. But he said nothing. She was embarrassed by the uncouth stare and flushed slightly. She coughed in her throat and put her fingers to her lips. She began to talk rapidly, as if apologizing to the uncouth giant for having had the temerity to address him a request.

“It’s because Frankie told us that he met you in the Dunboy Lodging House before he came here. You are the only one he met in town before he came in here, so I thought maybe that⁠ ⁠… you might be able⁠ ⁠…”

She stopped in confusion, amazed at the startling change that had come over Gypo. He had become seized by some violent emotion as she spoke until his face contorted as if he were gazing at some awe-inspiring horror. Then she stopped. His face stood still gaping at her. Then for some reason or other he jumped to his feet, shouting as he did so at the top of his voice: “All right.”

As he bent his head and the upper part of his body to jump to his feet, his right trousers pocket was turned mouth to the ground. Four silver coins fell to the cement floor with a rattling noise. These coins were the change he had received in the public-house.

He was petrified. Every muscle in his body stiffened. His head stood still. His jaws set like the teeth of a bear trap that has been sprung fruitlessly. Behind his eyes he felt the delicious cold and congealed sensation of being about to fight a desperate and bloody battle. For he was certain that the four white silver coins lying nakedly, ever so nakedly, on the floor, were as indicative of his betrayal of his comrade as a confession uttered aloud in a crowded marketplace.

Somebody stooped to pick up the coins.

“Let them alone,” shouted Gypo.

He swooped down to the floor and his right palm, spread flat, covered the coins with the dull sound of a heavy dead fish falling on an iron deck.

“I only wanted to hand them to ye, Gypo,” panted the weazened flour-mill worker who had stooped to pick them up. He had been knocked to his knees by Gypo’s swoop.

Gypo took no notice of the explanation. As he collected the coins in his left fist and rose again, leaning on his right hand, he was listening, waiting for the attack.

But there was no attack. Everybody was