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Kernan entered the kitchen, exclaiming: "Such a sight! O, he'll do for himself one day and that's the holy alls of it. He's been drinking since Friday." Mr. Power was careful to explain to her that he was not responsible, that he had come on the scene by the merest accident. Mrs. Kernan, remembering Mr.
Come as a surprise, Leixlip, Clonsilla. Dropping down lock by lock to Dublin. With turf from the midland bogs. Salute. He lifted his brown straw hat, saluting Paddy Dignam. They drove on past Brian Boroimhe house. Near it now. I wonder how is our friend Fogarty getting on, Mr Power said. Better ask Tom Kernan, Mr Dedalus said. How is that? Martin Cunningham said. Left him weeping, I suppose?
More than he resented the fact that he had been victimised he resented such low playing of the game. He answered the question, therefore, as if Mr. Kernan had asked it. The narrative made Mr. Kernan indignant. He was keenly conscious of his citizenship, wished to live with his city on terms mutually honourable and resented any affront put upon him by those whom he called country bumpkins.
One was in a draper's shop in Glasgow and the other was clerk to a tea-merchant in Belfast. They were good sons, wrote regularly and sometimes sent home money. The other children were still at school. Mr. Kernan sent a letter to his office next day and remained in bed. She made beef-tea for him and scolded him roundly.
Cunningham. "That's history." "Look at their church, too," said Mr. Power. "Look at the congregation they have." "The Jesuits cater for the upper classes," said Mr. M'Coy. "Of course," said Mr. Power. "Yes," said Mr. Kernan. "That's why I have a feeling for them. It's some of those secular priests, ignorant, bumptious " "They're all good men," said Mr. Cunningham, "each in his own way.
When the paper came he glanced at its first page, and then tore a leaf out of his memorandum book and began to write on it with the little gold pencil. "What's the news?" yawned Kernan. Woods flipped over to him the piece of writing: "The New York Morning Mars: "Please pay to the order of John Kernan the one thousand dollars reward coming to me for his arrest and conviction.
"At dinner, you know. Then he has a bloody big bowl of cabbage before him on the table and a bloody big spoon like a shovel. He takes up a wad of cabbage on the spoon and pegs it across the room and the poor devils have to try and catch it on their plates: 65, catch your cabbage." Everyone laughed again: but Mr. Kernan was somewhat indignant still. He talked of writing a letter to the papers.
It lacked a few minutes to the hour of four. The tides of trade were not yet loosed, and they found a quiet corner of the café. Kernan, well dressed, slightly swaggering, self-confident, seated himself opposite the little detective, with his pale, sandy mustache, squinting eyes and ready-made cheviot suit. "What business are you in now?" asked Woods.
"I'll show you what I think of newspapers in general, and your Morning Mars in particular." Three feet from their table was the telephone booth. Kernan went inside and sat at the instrument, leaving the door open. He found a number in the book, took down the receiver and made his demand upon Central.
"These yahoos coming up here," he said, "think they can boss the people. I needn't tell you, Martin, what kind of men they are." Mr. Cunningham gave a qualified assent. "It's like everything else in this world," he said. "You get some bad ones and you get some good ones." "O yes, you get some good ones, I admit," said Mr. Kernan, satisfied. "It's better to have nothing to say to them," said Mr.
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