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Power earnestly, "because it is sure to be crammed to the doors." "We can meet at half-seven," said Mr. M'Coy. "Righto!" said Mr. Cunningham. "Half-seven at M'Auley's be it!" 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.
Through the open doorway the bar squirted out whiffs of ginger, teadust, biscuitmush. Good house, however: just the end of the city traffic. For instance M'Auley's down there: n. g. as position. Of course if they ran a tramline along the North Circular from the cattlemarket to the quays value would go up like a shot. Baldhead over the blind. Cute old codger. No use canvassing him for an ad.
The gentlemen drank from their glasses, set the glasses again on the table and paused. Then Mr. Cunningham turned towards Mr. Power and said casually: "On Thursday night, you said, Jack." "Thursday, yes," said Mr. Power. "Righto!" said Mr. Cunningham promptly. "We can meet in M'Auley's," said Mr. M'Coy. "That'll be the most convenient place." "But we mustn't be late," said Mr.
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