Mulholland had also strained his neck to peer at the Treasury note. He had been standing in the angle of the doorway all the time, silent and immovable. As soon as he saw the pound note, he drew out into the open and craned over the heads of the people to look at it. A neighbour noticed him, a ragged little fellow, who mistook the cause of Mulholland’s curiosity. “Didn’t ye get any grub?” said the little man to Mulholland. “It’s yer own fault if ye didn’t. Come on, man. Don’t stand there hungry. Go on up to the counter.” He caught Mulholland by the arm and tried to push him towards the counter. “Leave me alone,” hissed Mulholland. “I don’t want any grub. Let go.” “Go on up,” pursued the little fellow; “go on, man. Didn’t ye hear him say he was standin’ a round for everybody. Go on up.” “Let go, I tell ye. Let go. I don’t want it, I say.” But it was no use for Mulholland to refuse. The more he refused the more the little fellow was determined that he should be fed. Others joined in, eager for some amazing reason or other that Mulholland should be fed. It seemed that they suspected something indecent and improper in Mulholland’s refusal to eat. “Call out,” cried somebody, “call out for another ration. Bring it down to him.” “Yes, why shouldn’t he have his share as well as the next?” “Let me alone,” cried Mulholland in a rage; “let me alone, or I’ll smash yer skull for ye.” That put a different aspect on the question. There were a dozen angry oaths. “So that’s what’s the matter with ye. Yer lookin’ for fight, eh?” “Stand back an’ let me at him,” cried somebody in the rear, pressing forward. Mulholland tried to rush for the door, but they held on to him. “What the hell is the matter now?” thundered Gypo, striding over. Immediately the scuffling stopped. Gypo came face to face with Mulholland. He saw Mulholland’s little eyes, gleaming and flashing like the eyes of a cat beset by dogs. There was a tense moment during which Gypo struggled with obscure suspicions. But suddenly the expression on Mulholland’s face changed into an expression of cunning intimacy. His face instead of being fierce and resentful suddenly seemed to say: “We are members of the Revolutionary Organization, you and I. Get this rabble out of my way.” Gypo immediately remembered Gallagher’s promise. He looked at Mulholland with a good-natured condescension. “Ha,” he thought, “this fellah’ll be useful.” “Let him alone,” he cried arrogantly; “he’s a friend o’ mine. How are ye gettin’ on, Bartly?” Then he continued carelessly, to impress the crowd with his own importance and his intimacy with the affairs of the Revolutionary Organization, which was the most impressive thing in the lives of those about him. “Hear anythin’ yet about what I was tellin’ ye? I mean about the fellah that informed on Frankie McPhillip?”