A tall, sour-faced, lean man, with a red nose shaped like a reversed scimitar, who had just come in, looked after the old woman and shook his head. He mumbled something under his breath. The old lady halted and looked at him contemptuously.
“What are ye sniggerin’ at,” she cried, “you with a face like a plate o’ burnt porridge?”
There was a loud laugh.
“Mary Hynes,” said the hook-nosed man, “if ye were more careful of yer son’s upbringin’ an’ of yer own immortal soul, ye wouldn’t be in the state ye are in now. Is it boastin’ of yer son’s lawlessness ye are? Are ye boastin’ of his hvin’ crimes an’ he already gone to meet his God?”
The hook-nosed man raised his right hand dramatically to point at the ceiling and he glared at the old woman with fierce and menacing sorrow. But his words produced a contrary effect to that which he expected on the old woman. She looked at him contemptuously and then curled her mouth up in anger.
“Yerrah, d’ye call it a crime to bate a policeman?” she cried in amazed indignation.
“Certainly it is a crime,” cried the hook-nosed man.
“Damn an’ blast it, what are ye talkin’ about, Boxer Lydon?” cried a burly fellow coming up to Lydon and staring him excitedly and angrily in the face. “Didn’t ye hear of what the polis did today to Frankie McPhillip? D’ye call it a crime to bate that murderin’ lot? Aye or shoot them either!”
“I don’t say they were justified in what they did today,” cried Lydon, raising his voice to a querulous shout in order to drown the uproar; “but neither will I say that the dead man was justified in what he done. Do none o’ ye think o’ the man McPhillip killed? Wasn’t he a fellow-man like yersel’? Wasn’t he an Irishman of the same flesh an’ blood?”
“Aw! that’s nationalism,” cried somebody. “What’s an Irishman no more than a Turk? Ye belong to the I.R.B., an’ that’s where ye get yer lingo. Up the workers!”
The hook-nosed man paused with his hand raised until the interrupter finished. Then he continued unmoved:
“Do none o’ ye think that maybe that man left a mother an’ a—”
But he had to stop. His voice was drowned in the uproar and the scuffling. The old woman began to sing “Kelly the Boy from Killane,” as she strolled out the door. Another man was pushing his way in through the crowd at the door towards the hook-nosed man. This newcomer had been standing at the door for some time. He was dressed from head to foot in a heavy black overcoat. He was better dressed than everybody present, but he looked as pale and haggard as the others. His face continually twitched and his eyes were bloodshot. He looked at the hook-nosed man fiercely and seized him nervously by the buttonhole. The hook-nosed man edged away.
“For God’s sake, let up on that rubbish,” cried the newcomer, stammering at each word. His upper lip was contorting as if he were in a fit.
“Let me go,” cried the hook-nosed man. “I’ll have my say, an’ I won’t be intimidated by any Socialist agitator. Keep back from me.”
“I only wanted to tell ye,” shouted the other, “I only wanted to tell ye … I say … I say …”
Then nothing could be distinguished above the uproar. Everybody present took part in the argument. The ragged fellows who had come in with Gypo, curiously enough, took no interest in the argument. Those of them that had not already disappeared as soon as they got their food, now took their leave when the argument began. There was even a look of fear in their faces as they slunk away, as if this demonstration of interest in the affairs of the world terrified them, who had no interest in anything, since their souls were numbed by the hopelessness of despair. Only a few of the most wretched remained, crouching against the counter, in the comforting shadow of Gypo’s immensity. They remained because the presence of his powerful personality comforted them and gave them the imaginary feeling of having something to protect them from the menace of civilized life.
Those that were now taking part in the argument were of a better class. They were workers of all sorts, members of trade unions and respectable people. They had appeared somehow, one by one but rapidly, in that mysterious way in which crowds of people of a certain type gather in the Titt Street district and carry on an argument with furious heat.
Gypo suddenly turned around and looked at the wrangling group, at the open mouths, the listening ears, the distorted faces, the glittering eyes. He listened. He blinked. Then he laughed softly within himself. He felt a crazy desire to yell and fall on them with his fists. The mixed murmur of their agitated voices had a maddening effect on him. But he looked back at the counter. He still had food to eat. He continued his meal. The argument went on.
The man with the long overcoat who had just arrived held the attention of the crowd. He was a well-known man in the district and all over the city. He owned a small tobacconist and newsvendor’s shop. He was called The Crank Shanahan and indeed he was a crank. He belonged to no organization, he went about alone, he attended every political meeting in the city and he was continually, in all weathers, agitating and preaching in a loud shrill voice his own peculiar philosophy of social life. That philosophy was a mixture of all sorts of political creeds, but its main basis was revolt against every existing institution, habit or belief. He was called an anarchist, but he was not an anarchist. He
