McPhillip sat down at the opposite side of the table. He did not speak and he did not express recognition by any sign or movement of his body. But he knew the man quite well. They were bosom friends. The man was Gypo Nolan, McPhillip’s companion during the strike of farm-labourers, when McPhillip had killed the secretary of the Farmers’ Union. Gypo Nolan had once been a policeman in Dublin, but he had been dismissed owing to a suspicion at Headquarters that he was in league with the Revolutionary Organization and had given information to them relative to certain matters that had leaked out. Since then he had been an active member of the Revolutionary Organization and had always acted with Francis Joseph McPhillip, so that they were known in revolutionary circles as the “Devil’s Twins.”
“Well, Gypo,” said McPhillip at last, “how is things?”
McPhillip’s voice was cracked and weak, but it had a fierce sincerity that gave it immense force, like the force in the chirping of a tiny bird whose nest is being robbed.
“Did ye leave them messages I gave ye?” he continued after a moment, during which he gasped for breath. “I didn’t hear anythin’ from home since I saw ye that evenin’ I had to take to the hills. What’s doin’, Gypo?”
Gypo stared in silence for several moments, breathing slowly, with open mouth and distended eyes. He never spoke. Then he made a strange sound, like a suppressed exclamation, in his throat. He slowly cut a large potato in four pieces with his knife. He transferred one piece to his mouth on the tip of his knife. He began to chew slowly. Then he stopped chewing suddenly and spoke. It was a deep thunderous voice.
“Where the divil did ye come from, Frankie?” he said.
“It don’t matter where I come from,” cried McPhillip in an irritated tone. “I got no time to waste passin’ the compliments o’ the season. I came in here to get wise to all the news. Tell us all ye know. First, tell me … wait a minute. How about them messages? Did ye deliver them? Don’t mind that grub. Man alive, are ye a savage or what? Here I am with the cops after me for me life an’ ye go on eatin’ yer spuds. Lave down that damn knife or I’ll plug ye. Come on, I’m riskin’ me life to come in here and ask ye a question. Get busy an’ tell me all about it.”
Gypo sighed easily and wiped his mouth with the back of his right sleeve. Then he put his knife on the table and swallowed his mouthful.
“Ye were always a cranky fellah,” he growled, “an’ ye don’t seem to be improvin’, with the spring weather. I’ll tell ye if ye hold on a minute. I delivered yer messages, to yer father an’ mother and to the Executive Committee. Yer ol’ man gev me dog’s abuse and drov’ me outa the house, an’ he cursed ye be bell, book an’ candle light. Yer mother followed me out cryin’ an’ put half a quid into me hand to give to ye. I had no way o’ findin’ ye an’ I was hungry mesel’, so I spent it. Well—”
McPhillip interrupted with a muttered curse. Then he was seized with a fit of coughing. When the fit was over, Gypo went on.
“Well,” continued Gypo. “Ye know yersel’ what happened with the Executive Committee. They sent a man out to tell ye. I wouldn’t mind them sendin’ a letter to the papers sayin’ they had nothin’ to do with the strike. It ud only be all swank anyway, an’ who cares? But I declare to Christ they near had me plugged when I went in to report. Commandant Gallagher was goin’ to send down men to plug ye too, but lots o’ the other fellahs got around him and he didn’t. Anyway I was fired out o’ the Organization as well as yersel’, although ye know yersel’, Frankie, that I had nothin’ to do with firin’ that shot. An’—”
“What the—” began McPhillip angrily, rapping the table; but again he began to cough. Gypo went on without taking notice of the coughing.
“The police arrested me, but they could find no evidence, so they gev me an awful beatin’ and threw me out. I ben wanderin’ around since without a dog to lick me trousers, half starvin’!”
“What do I want to know about the Executive Committee?” grumbled McPhillip angrily, recovering his breath. “I don’t Want to hear anything about executive committees or revolutionary organizations, me curse on the lot o’ them. I want to hear about me father an’ mother. What about ’em, Gypo?”
Gypo expanded his thick under lip and stared at McPhillip with distended eyes. His eyes seemed to hold an expression of sadness in their dim recesses, but it was hard to say. The face was so crude and strong that the expression that might be termed sadness in another face was mere wonder in his. For the first time he had noticed the pallor of McPhillip’s face, the hectic flush, the fits of coughing, the jerky movements and the evident terror in the eyes that used to be so fearless.
“Frankie,” cried Gypo in his deep, slow, passionless voice, “yer sick. Man alive, ye look as if ye were dyin’.”
McPhillip started and looked about him hurriedly as if he expected to see death there behind his back waiting to pounce upon him.
“Have a bite,” continued Gypo, “ ’twill warm ye up.”
At the same time he himself began to eat again fiercely, like a great strong animal, tackling the solitary meal of its day. The large red hands with just stumps of fingers held the knife and fork so ponderously that those frail instruments seemed to run the
