We were rattling along the Liffey. The tide was out and the few seagulls were investigating the city’s discarded biscuit tins in the mud on either side of the water. All along the embankment were men--old men, young men, boys. They propped the walls, they dozed upon the bridges, they watched the Guinness brewery carts rumbling backwards and forwards. Some looked at us with blank faces; but the majority looked into the mud that the tide had left. Finally we reached the hotel just as I was beginning to understand the jarvey’s speech. “How much?” Himself let the coins in his pocket jingle. “Four shillings.” The reply was given unblushingly. I could see the hotel porter reckoning his tip. We had a large room looking down on the main street. A stream of people passed. “Give a poor old woman a penny, sir,” I heard a beggar woman whine. “Mother iv God! a penny for the poor old woman.” She headed a man off, running in front of him and jerking the head of a wretched baby as she ran. “A penny for the love of God!” The man escaped to be waylaid by two others. “What a lot of fat beggars!” I exclaimed. The chambermaid walked listlessly to the window and looked out. A man in well cut clothes had tossed a penny to the ground, and the beggars had fallen upon it. “Those men do be spotters,” said the chambermaid for my benefit. “Spotters? What do you mean?” “Spies,” she answered briefly. “How can you tell?” She sniffed. “They’re not Dublin. They’re military. Will you be taking your breakfast here or downstairs?” “Here, thanks. And get me a bath ready. I’ll go to bed for a bit.” The stream of people increased as I watched. It was a listless stream. The only thing in a hurry was a lorry of armed soldiers jostling at breakneck speed through the traffic. “For the Lord’s sake, let’s get some breakfast!” Himself exclaimed in the middle of my watch. CHAPTER III I COME ACROSS 47 It was past eleven o’clock when I left my wife and wandered out of the hotel and across O’Connell Bridge. The tide was high, and something about the lights that lay upon the Liffey waters, and something about the numerous bridges spanning the river, brought me dreams of Venice. It is said there is truth in first impressions. I had a first impression of Dublin then. In that shining summer weather the city, which was at once so pleasantly conceived and so down at heels, impressed me as some likeable person fallen upon a sick bed.