Gallagher walked away northwards furiously, with glittering eyes, thinking.
VIII
Walking out from the public-house into the street, Gypo felt as if he had leapt suddenly into an arena, where he was to perform astounding feats, while an amazed audience, with two million eyes, gazed silent and spellbound. He thrust his head into the air. He let his arms hang limply from his shoulders in front of his body. He took two staggering steps forward and uttered a long-drawn-out yell.
It was that peculiar yell that mountaineers will utter in the west of Ireland, when the fair is over in the district town and night is falling, as they issue from the public-houses, bareheaded and wild-eyed, dragging their snorting and shivering mares after them by the halter.
Gypo’s yell was just such a one. It was like a challenge to mortal combat issued to all and sundry. He felt beside himself with strength. He was free again. Had not Gallagher given him his word that everything would be all right? Would he not be taken back again into the Organization? Had he not thrown suspicion on to the Rat Mulligan? He was free again. Ye‑a‑a‑aw!
He staggered to the kerbstone and yelled, letting his body go completely limp with ecstasy. Then, breathing heavily through his nostrils, he stood erect and looked about him to see what effect his yell had produced. There was a small crowd of people near by. They had just come out of Ryan’s public-house and from Shaughnessy’s, another public-house ten yards away at the corner of a lane. The corner was brilliant with light, from the public-houses, from a fried-fish and potato shop, and from a drapery shop where the lights were kept on all night by the owner, with the idea that the light might terrify gunmen and housebreakers.
Gypo stood out in the blaze of light, on the kerbstone, with the beads of rainwater on his white woollen muffler reflected like dewdrops in the artificial light. The people looked at him in amazement and with that intense satisfaction which the proletariat of the slums always derives from something unexpected and extraordinary happening, at no cost to themselves. A spectacle had presented itself. The crowd began to swell.
Gypo had not intended to carry the affair any further. In fact he had not intended to yell at all. But when he saw the crowd he became amused. He pitched on a man who stood near, a tall, thin, respectably dressed man, who had a sour expression on his face.
“What are ye lookin’ at me for?” cried Gypo, staring the fellow in the face insolently.
“I’m not lookin’ at ye,” snapped the man irritably.
“Yer a liar,” bellowed Gypo, “don’t I see ye lookin’ at me?”
“Well a cat can look at a king,” cried the stranger, thrusting out his chin and spitting venomously to his left.
“What are ye sayin’ about kings?” said Gypo angrily. “Better say nothin’ about kings around here, me lad. I think yer lookin’ for trouble. I’ve got a good mind to give ye a wallop in the jaw.”
“Ye would, would ye?” cried the stranger, making a move to take his hands out of his coat pockets.
But he was too late. Gypo’s right hand swung around. The man went down like a bag of nails dropped to an iron deck. Somebody cried: “Lord, save us.” Gypo stood over the fallen man with his chest heaving. A policeman appeared from somewhere in the rear. He advanced rapidly, shouldering the people and trying to snatch something from under his cape as he made for Gypo.
“Look out, look out,” cried an old woman, through her cupped hands.
Gypo looked on either side hurriedly and then he heard the excited breathing of the policeman approaching from behind. He tried to turn about, but the policeman was upon him. The policeman’s hands closed about his biceps and jerked back both his arms to lock them behind his back. The arms were halfway back before Gypo could mobilize his vast strength to arrest their retreat. There was a loud snap of bones being strained taut when Gypo’s strength collided with the policeman’s strength at the point on Gypo’s biceps where the policeman’s hands rested.
Both men groaned loudly. The policeman’s boots tore at the wet pavement, making a noise like dry cloth being rent, as he struggled to keep firm. Slowly Gypo leaned forward until the policeman’s body was on his back.
Then he thrust back his head with a snarl. His poll collided with the policeman’s chin. There was a dull thud and a snap. Gypo uttered an oath and thrust his head downwards towards his knees, holding his thighs rigid. Before the head had reached the knees, the policeman had hurtled through the air with a scream of terror, right over Gypo’s head.
He fell with three separate soft sounds to the street, with his right side against the concrete wall of a house. He fell on his back. He rose again in the middle, resting on his right hand and on his heels. He brandished his left hand towards Gypo and at the same time he tried to grip a fleeing spectator with it. Then he moaned and subsided again.
“Run, Gypo,” said somebody.
Gypo ran towards a lane at a fast run. He was followed by a crowd. Others gathered around the fallen policeman.
Gypo halted at the far end of the lane, in a dark corner. The crowd gathered around him. Everybody was panting with excitement. They all stared down the lane towards the blaze of light where the policeman lay. They began to jabber.
“I can see trouble comin’,” said one. “The sojers’ll be here shortly. Then yer goin’ to see some pluggin’.”
“Gwan,” said another contemptuously. “There’s no sojers goin’ to come down here. Ye wouldn’t get a sojer in the town to dare come within a mile of Titt Street on this blessed night, after what happened today.”
At the mention of “what happened today,”
