The Informer

sent ye down, on the orders of the Executive Committee, you and Frank McPhillip, to look after the defence work of the strikers. What orders did I give the two of you? Can you remember? Well, I’ll remind you. To keep off the booze and not to use the lead unless you were attacked. But what did you do? The very first thing, the two of you got hold of two women. That, of course, must have been Frankie’s work because I don’t suppose you were ever a great magnet among the women. Women were Frankie’s weak spot, damn it. But anyhow, it doesn’t matter very much which of you started the hunt. You tasted the honey as well as he did it, as far as was reported to me. The two of you got drunk at M⁠⸺ in company with these two women. You got so mad drunk that McPhillip went to shoot up the town. You might have assisted him in that pastime, but your time was occupied trying to pull a lamppost up by the roots in Oliver Plunket Street, for a bet of a gallon of stout. In the very middle of your entertainment, McPhillip met the secretary of the Farmers’ Union and shot him dead. That made you get over your drunkenness damn quick, didn’t it? The two of you bolted without making any attempt to cover your tracks. You ran like two hares. You came into Dublin with a red herring of a story about an attack and whatnot. It was a tall yarn. Well? D’ye know what I’m going to tell you, Gypo?”

He paused dramatically and looked Gypo closely in the eyes. Gypo never moved a muscle in his face. He grunted interrogatively from somewhere deep down in his chest. Gallagher continued very slowly:

“I’m going to tell you this much, Gypo. Only for me, you wouldn’t have got away with it as easily as you did that time. There were others who wanted to give you this, for disobeying orders.”

He moved his right hand suddenly beneath his raincoat, thrusting it forward against Gypo’s lower ribs. Gypo felt the contact of a blunt hard metal. He knew it was the muzzle of Gallagher’s Colt automatic pistol, but Gypo took no notice of the pistol. He was not afraid of the pistol. But he was afraid of Gallagher’s eyes into which he was looking steadily. He didn’t like them. They were so cold and blue and mysterious. Goodness knows what might be hidden behind them. His face began an irregular chaotic movement. His jaws, cheekbones, nose, mouth and forehead convulsed in opposite directions, as if a draught of wind had stolen in under the skin of his face and caused it to undulate. Then the face set again. The neck swelled and the little eyes bulged.

“No use tryin’ yer tricks on me, Danny Gallagher,” he growled, knocking the pistol muzzle away with a slight movement of his right hand. Although the blow was slight, it caused Gallagher to reel backwards two paces before he regained his balance. His face darkened for a moment and then again he broke into a smile. Gypo continued in a thunderous melancholy voice: “Gallagher, I got no use for you. Them’s all lies ye were tellin’ just now about tryin’ to save me life when I was before the Court of Inquiry last October. I know very well they was. Yerrah, are ye goin’ to tell me that yer not the chief boss an’ God knows what in the Organization? Who else has got any authority in it except yersel’? Yah. I got no use for ye. Yer a liar. Yer no good. An’ I’d be in my job yet in the police only for ye an’ yer soft talk. It was you that got me outa me job with yer promises o’ the Lord knows what. I declare to Almighty God that I done more for yer bloody Organization than any other man in Ireland. I done things that no man unhung could do. An’ ye went an’ threw me out on account of an ould farmer gettin’ plugged. Me an’ McPhillip. What did we get for it? Wha’⁠ ⁠… ye rotten⁠ ⁠…”

Gypo rambled off incoherently into a long string of blasphemous curses, raising his voice as he did so. His arms were raised outwards in a curve and his head was lowered, as if he were in the act of performing a swimming exercise. He frothed at the mouth and glared from one to the other of the three men, as if undecided which to attack first.

Then suddenly a little wooden panel in the wall to the right was raised up and a pretty red head was pushed through. It was Kitty the barmaid.

“Lord save us,” she cried, putting her fingers to her lips as she looked at Gypo. “Who is that fellah? What’s he doin’ here, Dan?”

“That’s all right, Kitty,” said Gallagher with a light laugh; “he’s a friend of mine. We are having a cursing competition.”

And he laughed heartily as he walked to the spittoon with the stub of his cigarette.

Gypo turned around and looked at the terrified face of the barmaid. As he looked at her beautiful face and her pretty soft hair that shimmered in the artificial light, his head swam and his eyes went watery. His anger left his body immediately so that it seemed to empty and collapse. It had been rigid and like a tree. Now it became loose and jointless. He stood with stooping head and wondering eyes, looking at the barmaid.

The barmaid, seeing the change she had effected by her presence in the unruly giant, grew conceited. She smiled in a superior way and dabbed at her hair. She looked around at the others with an air of: “D’ye all see that now?”

Then Gallagher came up to the aperture jauntily, took her two hands in his and looked enticingly into her eyes. Her eyes winced for a moment as if she