“Here, boy!” said Mr Henchy, “will you run over to O’Farrell’s and ask him to lend us a corkscrew—for Mr Henchy, say. Tell him we won’t keep it a minute. Leave the basket there.” The boy went out and Mr Henchy began to rub his hands cheerfully, saying: “Ah, well, he’s not so bad after all. He’s as good as his word, anyhow.” “There’s no tumblers,” said the old man. “O, don’t let that trouble you, Jack,” said Mr Henchy. “Many’s the good man before now drank out of the bottle.” “Anyway, it’s better than nothing,” said Mr O’Connor. “He’s not a bad sort,” said Mr Henchy, “only Fanning has such a loan of him. He means well, you know, in his own tinpot way.” The boy came back with the corkscrew. The old man opened three bottles and was handing back the corkscrew when Mr Henchy said to the boy: “Would you like a drink, boy?” “If you please, sir,” said the boy. The old man opened another bottle grudgingly, and handed it to the boy. “What age are you?” he asked. “Seventeen,” said the boy. As the old man said nothing further, the boy took the bottle and said: “Here’s my best respects, sir,” to Mr Henchy, drank the contents, put the bottle back on the table and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. Then he took up the corkscrew and went out of the door sideways, muttering some form of salutation. “That’s the way it begins,” said the old man. “The thin edge of the wedge,” said Mr Henchy. The old man distributed the three bottles which he had opened and the men drank from them simultaneously. After having drunk each placed his bottle on the mantelpiece within hand’s reach and drew in a long breath of satisfaction. “Well, I did a good day’s work today,” said Mr Henchy, after a pause. “That so, John?” “Yes. I got him one or two sure things in Dawson Street, Crofton and myself. Between ourselves, you know, Crofton (he’s a decent chap, of course), but he’s not worth a damn as a canvasser. He hasn’t a word to throw to a dog. He stands and looks at the people while I do the talking.” Here two men entered the room. One of them was a very fat man whose blue serge clothes seemed to be in danger of falling from his sloping figure. He had a big face which resembled a young ox’s face in expression, staring blue eyes and a grizzled moustache. The other man, who was much younger and frailer, had a thin, clean-shaven face. He wore a very high double collar and a wide-brimmed bowler hat. “Hello, Crofton!” said Mr Henchy to the fat man. “Talk of the devil....” “Where did the boose come from?” asked the young man. “Did the cow calve?” “O, of course, Lyons spots the drink first thing!” said Mr O’Connor, laughing. “Is that the way you chaps canvass,” said Mr Lyons, “and Crofton and I out in the cold and rain looking for votes?” “Why, blast your soul,” said Mr Henchy, “I’d get more votes in five minutes than you two’d get in a week.” “Open two bottles of stout, Jack,” said Mr O’Connor. “How can I?” said the old man, “when there’s no corkscrew?”