“One man is a plain honest man with no hunker-sliding about him. He goes in to represent the labour classes. This fellow you’re working for only wants to get some job or other.” “Of course, the working-classes should be represented,” said the old man. “The working-man,” said Mr Hynes, “gets all kicks and no halfpence. But it’s labour produces everything. The working-man is not looking for fat jobs for his sons and nephews and cousins. The working-man is not going to drag the honour of Dublin in the mud to please a German monarch.” “How’s that?” said the old man. “Don’t you know they want to present an address of welcome to Edward Rex if he comes here next year? What do we want kowtowing to a foreign king?” “Our man won’t vote for the address,” said Mr O’Connor. “He goes in on the Nationalist ticket.” “Won’t he?” said Mr Hynes. “Wait till you see whether he will or not. I know him. Is it Tricky Dicky Tierney?” “By God! perhaps you’re right, Joe,” said Mr O’Connor. “Anyway, I wish he’d turn up with the spondulics.” The three men fell silent. The old man began to rake more cinders together. Mr Hynes took off his hat, shook it and then turned down the collar of his coat, displaying, as he did so, an ivy leaf in the lapel. “If this man was alive,” he said, pointing to the leaf, “we’d have no talk of an address of welcome.” “That’s true,” said Mr O’Connor. “Musha, God be with them times!” said the old man. “There was some life in it then.” The room was silent again. Then a bustling little man with a snuffling nose and very cold ears pushed in the door. He walked over quickly to the fire, rubbing his hands as if he intended to produce a spark from them. “No money, boys,” he said. “Sit down here, Mr Henchy,” said the old man, offering him his chair. “O, don’t stir, Jack, don’t stir,” said Mr Henchy. He nodded curtly to Mr Hynes and sat down on the chair which the old man vacated. “Did you serve Aungier Street?” he asked Mr O’Connor. “Yes,” said Mr O’Connor, beginning to search his pockets for memoranda. “Did you call on Grimes?” “I did.” “Well? How does he stand?” “He wouldn’t promise. He said: ‘I won’t tell anyone what way I’m going to vote.’ But I think he’ll be all right.” “Why so?” “He asked me who the nominators were; and I told him. I mentioned Father Burke’s name. I think it’ll be all right.” Mr Henchy began to snuffle and to rub his hands over the fire at a terrific speed. Then he said: “For the love of God, Jack, bring us a bit of coal. There must be some left.” The old man went out of the room. “It’s no go,” said Mr Henchy, shaking his head. “I asked the little shoeboy, but he said: ‘Oh, now, Mr Henchy, when I see the work going on properly I won’t forget you, you may be sure.’ Mean little tinker! ’Usha, how could he be anything else?” “What did I tell you, Mat?” said Mr Hynes. “Tricky Dicky Tierney.”