“How didn’t I think of it before?” he cried, looking thoughtfully at the ceiling. He was completely immersed now in the contemplation of his own cleverness. He did not notice the utter silence with which his story had been received by Gallagher and the other two men. He was contemplating with pleasure the old days, when he had a criminal in his charge, in the cells, at the police-station. He used to stand for a whole hour in the stillness of the night, baiting the prisoner, terrorizing him with his eyes, with a sudden display of strength, with a mad laugh, with silent staring. He was feeling that same sensation now. Exhilarated by the whisky he had drunk and carried away by the concentrated nerve strain of the past few hours, he imagined that he had Gallagher and the other two men at his mercy, that he was a policeman and that they were civilians who were asking a favour of him, an illegal favour that put them in his power. It was just that way in the old days, when he used to sell Gallagher little tit-bits of information over a drink; little harmless, he thought, bits of information, about head-quarters routine and the disposition of the detective-force personnel. “Think of what before?” Gallagher remarked coldly. He spoke slowly and casually, looking at Gypo in a brooding way. “Why, I mean the grudge that the Rat had in for Frankie,” Gypo replied confidentially and with an air of great importance. “What grudge are you referring to?” “Oh, it’s a long story,” said Gypo with a sigh, as he walked over to the spittoon and spat into it. Then he hitched up his trousers. He cleared his throat with a tremendous noise. It was very tantalizing. “Stand us another drink, Commandant, before they close,” he cried suddenly, with amazing nonchalance. “By the lumpin’ Moses!” ejaculated Gallagher. “You’re a cool customer, Gypo. Ha, ha, ha! Well now! You’re worth another drink anyway.” He winked secretly at Mulholland and Connor as he walked over to the aperture. Gypo called after him almost contemptuously. “Hurry up,” he said, as he looked at the clock with a scowling face, “we only have another minute. It’s a minute to eleven.” Again four glasses of whisky were passed around. Gypo took his and swallowed it at a draught. This time he took the glass from Gallagher’s hand without asking for it. He swallowed that also at a draught, as if he were going through a public exhibition of his drinking powers. Mulholland and Connor swallowed their drinks hurriedly, as if they were afraid that he was going to take theirs too. He walked over to the mantelpiece and put the two empty glasses on it. He looked at the five glasses he had emptied and smiled broadly. He whacked his chest with a loud sound. “Come on now, comrade,” said Gallagher sharply, “out with your news. No fooling.”