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There was a short silence. Mr. Kernan waited to see
whether he would be taken into his friends’ confidence.
Then he asked:
‘What’s in the wind?’
‘O, it’s nothing,’ said Mr. Cunningham. ‘It’s only a little
matter that we’re arranging about for Thursday.’
‘The opera, is it?’ said Mr. Kernan.
‘No, no,’ said Mr. Cunningham in an evasive tone, ‘it’s
just a little... spiritual matter.’
‘0,’ said Mr. Kernan.
There was silence again. Then Mr. Power said, point
blank:
‘To tell you the truth, Tom, we’re going to make a re-
t reat.’
‘Yes, that’s it,’ said Mr. Cunningham, ‘Jack and I and
M’Coy here —we’re all going to wash the pot.’
He uttered the metaphor with a certain homely energy
and, encouraged by his own voice, proceeded:
‘You see, we may as well all admit we’re a nice collection
of scoundrels, one and all. I say, one and all,’ he added with
gruff charity and turning to Mr. Power. ‘Own up now!’
‘I own up,’ said Mr. Power.
‘And I own up,’ said Mr. M’Coy.
‘So we’re going to wash the pot together,’ said Mr. Cun-
ningham.
A thought seemed to strike him. He turned suddenly to
the invalid and said:
‘D’ye know what, Tom, has just occurred to me? You
night join in and we’d have a four-handed reel.’