e and O'Flaherty were standing in the doorway of the Phoenix,
observing the brief and secret meeting under the elm.

'That's Sturk,' said Toole.

O'Flaherty grunted acquiescence.

Toole watched attentively till the gentlemen separated, and then
glancing on O'Flaherty from the corner of his eye, with a knowing smile,
'tipped him the wink,' as the phrase went in those days.

'An affair of honour?' said O'Flaherty, squaring himself. He smelt
powder in everything.

'More like an affair of _dishonour_,' said Toole, buttoning his coat.
'He's been "kiting" all over the town. Nutter can distrain for his rent
to-morrow, and Cluffe called him outside the bar to speak with him; put
that and that together, Sir.' And home went Toole.

Sturk, indeed, had no plan, and was just then incapable of forming any.
He changed his route, not knowing why, and posted over the bridge, and a
good way along the Inchicore road, and then turned about and strode back
again and over the bridge, without stopping, and on towards Dublin; and
suddenly the moon shone out, and he recollected how late it was growing,
and so turned about and walked homeward.

As he passed by the row of houses looking across the road towards the
river, from Mr. Irons's hall-door step a well-known voice accosted him--

'A thweet night, doctor--the moon tho thilver bright--the air tho
thoft!'

It was little Puddock, whose hand and face were raised toward the sweet
regent of the sky.

'Mighty fine night,' said Sturk, and he paused for a second. It was
Puddock's way to be more than commonly friendly and polite with any man
who owed him money; and Sturk, who thought, perhaps rightly, that the
world of late had been looking cold and black upon him, felt, in a sort
of way, thankful for the greeting and its cordial tone.

'A night like this,' pursued the little lieutenant, 'my dear Sir, brings
us under the marble balconies of the palace of the Capulets, and sets us
repeating "On such a night sat Dido on the wild seabanks"--you
remember--"and with a willow wand, waved her love back to Carthage,"--or
places us upon the haunted platform, where buried Denmark revisits the
glimpses of the moon. My dear doctor, 'tis wonderful--isn't it--how much
of our enjoyment of Nature we owe to Shakespeare--'twould be a changed
world with us, doctor, if Shakespeare had not written--' Then there was
a little pause, Sturk standing still.

'God be wi' ye, lieutenant,' said he, suddenly taking