ce or twice and, when the party was leaving the room,
she brushed against his chair and said "O, pardon!" in a London accent.
He watched her leave the room in the hope that she would look back at
him, but he was disappointed. He cursed his want of money and cursed all
the rounds he had stood, particularly all the whiskies and Apolinaris
which he had stood to Weathers. If there was one thing that he hated it
was a sponge. He was so angry that he lost count of the conversation of
his friends.

When Paddy Leonard called him he found that they were talking about
feats of strength. Weathers was showing his biceps muscle to the company
and boasting so much that the other two had called on Farrington to
uphold the national honour. Farrington pulled up his sleeve accordingly
and showed his biceps muscle to the company. The two arms were examined
and compared and finally it was agreed to have a trial of strength. The
table was cleared and the two men rested their elbows on it, clasping
hands. When Paddy Leonard said "Go!" each was to try to bring down
the other's hand on to the table. Farrington looked very serious and
determined.

The trial began. After about thirty seconds Weathers brought his
opponent's hand slowly down on to the table. Farrington's dark
wine-coloured face flushed darker still with anger and humiliation at
having been defeated by such a stripling.

"You're not to put the weight of your body behind it. Play fair," he
said.

"Who's not playing fair?" said the other.

"Come on again. The two best out of three."

The trial began again. The veins stood out on Farrington's forehead,
and the pallor of Weathers' complexion changed to peony. Their hands
and arms trembled under the stress. After a long struggle Weathers again
brought his opponent's hand slowly on to the table. There was a murmur
of applause from the spectators. The curate, who was standing beside
the table, nodded his red head towards the victor and said with stupid
familiarity:

"Ah! that's the knack!"

"What the hell do you know about it?" said Farrington fiercely, turning
on the man. "What do you put in your gab for?"

"Sh, sh!" said O'Halloran, observing the violent expression of
Farrington's face. "Pony up, boys. We'll have just one little smahan
more and then we'll be off."

A very sullen-faced man stood at the corner of O'Connell Bridge
waiting for the little Sandymount tram to take him home. He was full
of smouldering anger and