Old Jack raked the cinders together with a piece of cardboard and
spread them judiciously over the whitening dome of coals. When the dome
was thinly covered his face lapsed into darkness but, as he set himself
to fan the fire again, his crouching shadow ascended the opposite wall
and his face slowly re-emerged into light. It was an old man’s face,
very bony and hairy. The moist blue eyes blinked at the fire and the
moist mouth fell open at times, munching once or twice mechanically
when it closed. When the cinders had caught he laid the piece of
cardboard against the wall, sighed and said:
“That’s better now, Mr O’Connor.”
Mr O’Connor, a grey-haired young man, whose face was disfigured by many
blotches and pimples, had just brought the tobacco for a cigarette into
a shapely cylinder but when spoken to he undid his handiwork
meditatively. Then he began to roll the tobacco again meditatively and
after a moment’s thought decided to lick the paper.
“Did Mr Tierney say when he’d be back?” he asked in a husky falsetto.
“He didn’t say.”
Mr O’Connor put his cigarette into his mouth and began to search his
pockets. He took out a pack of thin pasteboard cards.
“I’ll get you a match,” said the old man.
“Never mind, this’ll do,” said Mr O’Connor.
He selected one of the cards and read what was printed on it: