Gallagher might have gone on speaking for a long time. He was a man of tried and practised eloquence. He had arrived without much effort at his favourite subject. Fragments of old speeches, glowing periods, oft-repeated perorations thronged confusedly on his memory. Mr. Billing seemed to be listening with sympathy and admiration. It might be a long time before such a favourable opportunity for making a speech came to Gallagher again. Unfortunately he was interrupted. Mary Ellen had come, unperceived, out of the hotel. She was at Mr. Billing’s elbow just when Gallagher reached his prophecy about Home Rule. She spoke without the slightest regard for the orator’s feelings. “The chops is fried,” she said. Doyle had often heard his friend make speeches before. He had no wish to be subjected to unnecessary oratory on a very hot day. He supported Mary Ellen’s appeal. “It would be as well for you,” he said, “to go and eat them, the way they won’t be getting cold on you.” Mr. Billing saw the wisdom of this advice at once. He turned to go into the hotel. But he evidently wanted to hear more of Thady Gallagher’s speech. “When I’ve finished my lunch,” he said, “I shall look forward to a long talk with Mr. Gallagher. I want to gather together all the local traditions which survive about the boyhood of the great General. I’m writing his biography, gentlemen. I need say no more.” “Mary Ellen,” said Doyle, “whatever the gentleman fancies in the way of a drink, will you see that he gets it?” Mary Ellen, smiling pleasantly, walked in front of Mr. Billing and conducted him to the small ill-lighted room which Doyle called the Commercial Room of his hotel. There, on a very dirty table cloth, were a knife and fork, a plate which held two chops with a quantity of grease round them, and a dish with five pallid potatoes in it. The meal was not appetising. On a very hot day it was almost repulsive. But Mr. Billing was either really hungry or he was a man of unusual determination. He sat down to his chops with a smile. “I guess,” he said, “that whisky is the drink you’re most likely to have in this hotel?” “There’s porter,” said Mary Ellen, “and there’s minerals, and there’s ginger cordial.” “If I’m here for a week,” said Mr. Billing, “I’ll put you wise in the matter of making cocktails. A Saratoga cocktail is a drink——” “Is it whisky I’ll bring you now?” said Mary Ellen. She was a girl of sense and wisdom. She was no more inclined to listen to Mr. Billing’s panegyric of the Saratoga cocktail than to Thady Gallagher’s patriotic denunciation of the flunkeys of the rent office. Without waiting for an answer she went away and brought Mr. Billing the usual quantity of Irish whisky in the bottom of a tumbler with a bottle of soda water. Doyle and Thady Gallagher, left alone in the street, stared at each other in silence. It was Doyle who spoke first: “What you want, Thady,” he said, “is a drop of something to drink, to revive the courage in you.”