He moved his right hand suddenly beneath his raincoat, thrusting it forward against Gypo’s lower ribs. Gypo felt the contact of a blunt hard metal. He knew it was the muzzle of Gallagher’s Colt automatic pistol, but Gypo took no notice of the pistol. He was not afraid of the pistol. But he was afraid of Gallagher’s eyes into which he was looking steadily. He didn’t like them. They were so cold and blue and mysterious. Goodness knows what might be hidden behind them. His face began an irregular chaotic movement. His jaws, cheek-bones, nose, mouth and forehead convulsed in opposite directions, as if a draught of wind had stolen in under the skin of his face and caused it to undulate. Then the face set again. The neck swelled and the little eyes bulged. “No use tryin’ yer tricks on me, Danny Gallagher,” he growled, knocking the pistol muzzle away with a slight movement of his right hand. Although the blow was slight, it caused Gallagher to reel backwards two paces before he regained his balance. His face darkened for a moment and then again he broke into a smile. Gypo continued in a thunderous melancholy voice: “Gallagher, I got no use for you. Them’s all lies ye were tellin’ just now about tryin’ to save me life when I was before the Court of Inquiry last October. I know very well they was. Yerrah, are ye goin’ to tell me that yer not the chief boss an’ God knows what in the Organization? Who else has got any authority in it except yersel’? Yah. I got no use for ye. Yer a liar. Yer no good. An’ I’d be in my job yet in the police only for ye an’ yer soft talk. It was you that got me outa me job with yer promises o’ the Lord knows what. I declare to Almighty God that I done more for yer bloody Organization than any other man in Ireland. I done things that no man unhung could do. An’ ye went an’ threw me out on account of an ould farmer gettin’ plugged. Me an’ McPhillip. What did we get for it? Wha’ . . . ye rotten . . .” Gypo rambled off incoherently into a long string of blasphemous curses, raising his voice as he did so. His arms were raised outwards in a curve and his head was lowered, as if he were in the act of performing a swimming exercise. He frothed at the mouth and glared from one to the other of the three men, as if undecided which to attack first. Then suddenly a little wooden panel in the wall to the right was raised up and a pretty red head was pushed through. It was Kitty the barmaid. “Lord save us,” she cried, putting her fingers to her lips as she looked at Gypo. “Who is that fellah? What’s he doin’ here, Dan?” “That’s all right, Kitty,” said Gallagher with a light laugh; “he’s a friend of mine. We are having a cursing competition.” And he laughed heartily as he walked to the spittoon with the stub of his cigarette.