“Is this what we pay rates for?” he asked. “To feed and clothe these ignorant bostooms ... and they’re nothing else.” Mr Cunningham laughed. He was a Castle official only during office hours. “How could they be anything else, Tom?” he said. He assumed a thick provincial accent and said in a tone of command: “65, catch your cabbage!” Everyone laughed. Mr M’Coy, who wanted to enter the conversation by any door, pretended that he had never heard the story. Mr Cunningham said: “It is supposed—they say, you know—to take place in the depot where they get these thundering big country fellows, omadhauns, you know, to drill. The sergeant makes them stand in a row against the wall and hold up their plates.” He illustrated the story by grotesque gestures. “At dinner, you know. Then he has a bloody big bowl of cabbage before him on the table and a bloody big spoon like a shovel. He takes up a wad of cabbage on the spoon and pegs it across the room and the poor devils have to try and catch it on their plates: 65, _catch your cabbage_.” Everyone laughed again: but Mr Kernan was somewhat indignant still. He talked of writing a letter to the papers. “These yahoos coming up here,” he said, “think they can boss the people. I needn’t tell you, Martin, what kind of men they are.” Mr Cunningham gave a qualified assent. “It’s like everything else in this world,” he said. “You get some bad ones and you get some good ones.” “O yes, you get some good ones, I admit,” said Mr Kernan, satisfied. “It’s better to have nothing to say to them,” said Mr M’Coy. “That’s my opinion!” Mrs Kernan entered the room and, placing a tray on the table, said: “Help yourselves, gentlemen.” Mr Power stood up to officiate, offering her his chair. She declined it, saying she was ironing downstairs, and, after having exchanged a nod with Mr Cunningham behind Mr Power’s back, prepared to leave the room. Her husband called out to her: “And have you nothing for me, duckie?” “O, you! The back of my hand to you!” said Mrs Kernan tartly. Her husband called after her: “Nothing for poor little hubby!” He assumed such a comical face and voice that the distribution of the bottles of stout took place amid general merriment. The gentlemen drank from their glasses, set the glasses again on the table and paused. Then Mr Cunningham turned towards Mr Power and said casually: “On Thursday night, you said, Jack.” “Thursday, yes,” said Mr Power. “Righto!” said Mr Cunningham promptly. “We can meet in M’Auley’s,” said Mr M’Coy. “That’ll be the most convenient place.” “But we mustn’t be late,” said Mr Power earnestly, “because it is sure to be crammed to the doors.” “We can meet at half-seven,” said Mr M’Coy. “Righto!” said Mr Cunningham. “Half-seven at M’Auley’s be it!” There was a short silence. Mr Kernan waited to see whether he would be taken into his friends’ confidence. Then he asked: “What’s in the wind?”