“What’s the meaning of this treatment of a workingman?” he cried. “By you men that are supposed to be out for the freedom of the working class. Can ye find no better man to arrest an’ carry off in the middle o’ the night than me, that’s dyin’ on me feet o’ consumption? An’ havin’, still an’ all, to work me hands off at me trade, tailorin’ an’ stitchin’ in a basement, that’s more like the cave of a wild animal than a room. Me that’s—”
“Mulligan,” interrupted Gallagher impassively but sharply, “I asked you for a statement of your whereabouts, between noon today and midnight tonight. You better be quick about your statement. We have no time to waste.”
Suddenly Mulligan’s short-lived arrogance vanished. He looked around him on all sides pathetically. He saw only stern, unsympathetic faces. He sighed and dug his hands deep into his overcoat pockets. Then he drew the pockets closely about his body and crouched low on his seat. He began to speak in a meek, timorous voice.
“Lemme see,” he said, looking at the ground. “At noon today, or let us say dinner time, if it’s the same to you, I was lyin’ in me bed. I had a bad pain in me right side from bronchitis all the mornin’ an’ I had to stay in bed with it. At one o’clock about, the old woman gev me a cup o’ tay an’ an egg. I remember I couldn’t ate the egg. Well, that’s no matter. I had to get up then, on account of a suit that has to be made for Mick Foley the carter. It’s got to be finished be Friday. His daughter is gettin’ married next Monday to—”
“Don’t mind Foley’s daughter,” snapped Gallagher. “What had she got to do with your movements? Tell us about yourself.”
Mulligan began to cough furiously. His body shook and he almost fell off the form. Then the fit subsided. He sat shivering and unable to speak.
“Come on, Rat,” growled Gypo, nudging him with his elbow in the ribs. “Ye might as well come out with it now as another time. Go ahead an’ tell ’em all about it.”
Mulligan looked at Gypo. His lips trembled. His great dark eyes filled with tears. The terrific, massive countenance of Gypo, cunning with drunkenness, did not inspire him at that moment with fear. For some peculiar reason, his poor, shattered soul had gathered to itself just then a great courage. His withered face shone with a spiritual power. He spoke softly, tenderly, with pity.
“It’s not for me to condemn ye,” he said; “maybe yer not responsible.”
“Blast ye,” yelled Gypo, jumping to his feet. “What does he mean, Commandant Gallagher, about me not bein’ res-re-prosible? What does he mean by it? I want to know what he’s drivin’ at.”
“Sit down, Nolan,” cried Gallagher. “Sit down immediately and keep quiet. Sit down, I say.”
Gypo sat down with a clutter. He stared at Gallagher, with the strange, bewildered look of a dog that has been reprimanded by his master and is wondering why he has been reprimanded. For the first time he realized that there was a cold, dangerous ring in Gallagher’s voice. He sat immovable for two moments, without drawing breath, meditating on this hostile ring which he had heard in Gallagher’s voice.
Unconsciously he took off his little, tattered, round, slouch hat. He pushed it, without looking at it, into his right-hand trousers pocket.
Mulligan began again to talk.
“Lemme see,” he said, “where was I? Oh, yes. I worked on till about half-past three or maybe a quarter to four, when Charlie Corrigan came in an’ said that his brother Dave had just come outa jail, after bein’ on hunger strike for eighteen days. Ye remember he was thrown in on account of the Slum Rents Agitation. ‘He’s upstairs,’ says Charlie. Well, I went up an’ we talked over a cup o’ tay until about six o’clock. It was just six when I left, because I heard the angelus beginnin’ to strike an’ I on me way down the stairs, because I stopped to cross mesel’. Then I ran down home an’ put on me overcoat and went out to the chapel. I’m makin’ the Stations o’ the Cross for …” He stopped and flushed. … “Well, it’s no matter to no man why I’m makin’ em.”
“All right, then,” snapped Gallagher. “We don’t want to know why you are making them. We merely want facts, not superstitions. You went into the chapel at six o’clock, or a few minutes afterwards to be precise. How far is the chapel from your house?”
“Maybe it’s a hundred yards, maybe it’s more. If ye go around the corner be Kane’s it’s less, but be goin’ the other road around—”
“Oh, damn the other road. Pardon me, Miss McPhillip. Let us say it’s one hundred yards. You arrived at the chapel then at about three minutes past six. That correct?”
“Uh … that ud be right … about that.”
“Well? How long did you stay there?”
“I stayed there until about half-past six. An’ then I stayed talkin’ outside the door to Fr. Conroy for maybe ten minutes. He wanted to know—”
“Did you talk to anybody other than the priest you mention?”
“I’m comin’ to that. After I left Fr. Conroy I met Barney Kerrigan.”
“Where? Near the chapel?”
“Yes. It must have been within fifty yards of it, as yer goin’ be measurements, although we never—”
“Just a moment. Were you ever a member of the Revolutionary Organization?”
“What makes ye ask that? Does any man know better than yersel’ whether I was or not?”
“Were you a member?”
“Sure I was.”
“That’s better. Why did you
