Mulholland was amazed for a moment. What audacity! But it was not audacity. Gypo had completely forgotten the ponderous fellow in the little tattered round hat who had gone into the police-station. His sudden conceit had completely swallowed that ponderous fellow. “He must be drunk,” thought Mulholland. He said aloud, whispering to Gypo, as he bent his head close and turned up his face sideways in his peculiar manner, “I was just passin’ an’ saw ye. I just thought I’d drop in an’ tell ye I’d be there at one o’clock. Ye know where I mean? No, we didn’t hear anythin’ yet about that.” He winked his right eye. Gypo winked his right eye and nodded solemnly. Then Mulholland walked quickly out the door, evidently going off somewhere in a hurry. But he halted at the corner of the lane, distended his eyes and gritted his teeth. He rubbed his chin meditatively, looking at the ground. He couldn’t make it out, whatever it was, that was troubling his mind. Gypo turned once more to the counter and continued his meal. He ate as if he were about to travel for days and he were deliberately devouring a store of food sufficient to last to the end of the journey. Behind him and on either side of him, they were talking about his strength and praising him, but he paid no heed to them. He was immersed in dreams about his future, now that Gallagher was going to take him back again into the Organization. “Aha!” cried an old woman, with watery blue eyes and a wrinkled white face, as she shook her fist upwards at him, “I wish I had a son like ye. Me own Jimmy, Lord Have Mercy on him, was killed in the big war. He was the boy that could bate the polis! Don’t be talkin’. I seen him wan night an’ it took six o’ them to pull him off a coal cart an’ he holdin’ on to the horse’s reins all the time with wan hand while he was fightin’ them with th’ other.” She stamped on the floor and yelled, her eyes gleaming ferociously, as if the contemplation of her dead son’s fight gave her tangible pleasure. Then she walked towards the door, trailing her shawl and her arms with bravado. The poor woman was slightly insane as the result of paralysis. A tall, sour-faced, lean man, with a red nose shaped like a reversed scimitar, who had just come in, looked after the old woman and shook his head. He mumbled something under his breath. The old lady halted and looked at him contemptuously. “What are ye sniggerin’ at,” she cried, “you with a face like a plate o’ burnt porridge?” There was a loud laugh. “Mary Hynes,” said the hook-nosed man, “if ye were more careful of yer son’s upbringin’ an’ of yer own immortal soul, ye wouldn’t be in the state ye are in now. Is it boastin’ of yer son’s lawlessness ye are? Are ye boastin’ of his livin’ crimes an’ he already gone to meet his God?”