This confirmed Doyle’s view of the extreme seriousness of the situation. That Gallagher should be prepared to defy the clergy was bad enough. That he should adopt an ascetic’s attitude towards drink was worse. But Doyle did not quite believe that Gallagher meant what he said. He opened a door at the far end of the office and whistled loudly. A small boy who had been cleaning type in the printing-room, appeared, rubbing his inky hands on his trousers. “Michael Antony,” said Doyle, “will you step across to the hotel and tell Mary Ellen to give you the bottle of whisky that she’ll find in the cupboard in my own room? If you can’t find Mary Ellen—and it’s hardly ever she is to be found when she’s wanted—you can fetch the bottle yourself. If you don’t know the way to my room you ought to.” Michael Antony, who was very well accustomed to errands of this kind, went off at once. Doyle glanced at Gallagher, who appeared to be absorbed in completing the transcription of his shorthand notes, the task at which he had been interrupted in the morning by young Kerrigan’s cornet playing. He seemed to be very busy. Doyle got up and left the room, went into the kitchen which lay beyond the printing-room, and returned with two tumblers and a jug of water. Gallagher looked up from his writing for an instant. Doyle noticed with pleasure the expression of violent anger was fading from his eyes. Michael Antony, who was a brisk and willing boy, returned with a bottle rather more than half full of whisky. “Mary Ellen was upstairs along with a lady,” he said. “But I found the bottle.” “If you were three years older,” said Doyle, “I’d give you a drop for your trouble. But it wouldn’t be good for you, Michael Antony, and your mother wouldn’t be pleased if she heard you were taking it.” “I have the pledge since Christmas, anyway,” said Michael Antony. “Thady,” said Doyle, when the boy had left the room, “it’s a drink you want to quench the rage that’s in you.” Gallagher looked up from his papers. He did not say anything, but Doyle understood exactly what he would have said if his pride had not prevented him from speaking. “The width of two fingers in the bottom of the tumbler,” said Doyle, “with as much water on top of that as would leave you free to say that you weren’t drinking it plain.” The amount of water necessary to soothe Gallagher’s conscience was very small. Doyle added it from the jug in driblets of about a teaspoonful at a time. At the sound of the third splash Gallagher raised his hand. Doyle laid down the jug at once. Gallagher, without looking up from his papers, stretched out his left hand and felt about until he grasped the tumbler. He raised it to his lips and took a mouthful of whisky. “Thady,” said Doyle, “you’ve no great liking for Mr. Ford.” “I have not,” said Gallagher. “Isn’t he always going against me at the Petty Sessions, he and the old Major together, and treating me as if I wasn’t a magistrate the same as the best of them?”