“What are you getting for it?” he asked. “Five shillings a load.” “You’re doing well,” said the sergeant. “It’s good gravel, so it is, the best.” “It may be good gravel,” said the sergeant, “but the gentleman that’s buying it will buy it dear if you take the half of every load you bring in home in the evening and fetch it here again the next morning along with a little more.” The sergeant stared at the gravel in the boat as he spoke. His face had cleared, and the look of suspicion had left his eyes. Sweeny, so his instinct told him, must be engaged in some kind of wrongdoing. Now he understood what it was. The gentleman up the country was to be defrauded of half the gravel he paid for. Curiously enough, considering that his wrongdoing had been detected, the look of anxiety left Kinsella’s face. He sucked at his pipe, found that it had gone out, and slipped it into his waistcoat pocket. “If neither Sweeny nor the gentleman is making any complaint,” he said, “it would suit you to keep your mouth shut.” “I’m not blaming you,” said the sergeant “Sure, anybody’d do the same if they got the chance.” “If there’s people in the world,” said Kinsella, “that hasn’t sense enough to see that they get what they pay for, oughtn’t we to be thankful for it?” “You’re right there,” said the sergeant Kinsella took out his pipe and lit it again. Sergeant Rafferty after examining the sea with attentive scrutiny for some minutes, strolled back towards his barracks. Peter Walsh slid off the window sill of Brannigan’s shop and took a long look at the sky. Having satisfied himself that its appearance was very much what he expected he walked down the quay to the place where Kinsella was sitting. “It’s a fine evening,” he said. “It is,” said Kinsella, “as fine an evening as you’d see, thanks be to God.” Peter Walsh sat down beside his friend and spat into the boat beneath him. “I seen the sergeant talking to you,” he said. “That same sergeant has mighty little to do,” said Kinsella. “It’ll be as well for us if he hasn’t more one of these days.” “What do you mean by that, Peter Walsh?” “What might he have been talking to you about?” “Gravel, no less.” “Asking who it might be for or the like? Would you say, now, Joseph Antony, that he was anyways uneasy in his mind?” “He was uneasy,” said Kinsella, “but he’s easy now.” “Did you tell him who the gravel was for?” “Is it likely I’d tell him when I didn’t know myself? What I told him was that Timothy Sweeny had the gravel bought off me at five shillings a load and that it was likely he’d be sending it by rail to some gentleman up the country that would have it ordered from him.” “And what did he say to that?”