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Updated: May 23, 2025
"Men," I said, "I've promised to do this in so many days. They say we can't do it. If we don't, here's where they laugh at the gang." We did it. I never heard from Corkery about it but when we were through I thanked the gang and I found them more truly mine than they had ever been before.
"It isn't the loss I mind," he said, "but well there is a firm or two that is waiting to give me the laugh." "They won't laugh," I said. He looked at me a moment and then called in a clerk. "Have those figures put in shape," he said, "and send in this bid." Corkery secured the contract. I picked one hundred men. The morning we began I held a sort of convention.
The recorder, we observe, passed sentence of transportation yesterday on a fellow named Corkery, who had some years ago been similarly sentenced by one of the judges, but for whose release his worship was unable to account. The explanation, however, is easy.
With something of Hardy's stark rendering of atmosphere, Mr. O'Brien has portrayed a grim situation unforgettably. Woven out of the simplest elements, and with an entire lack of literary sophistication, his story is fairly comparable to the work of Daniel Corkery, whose volume, "A Munster Twilight," has interested me more than any other volume of short stories published in America this year.
They were willing to get out of it with the smallest possible margin of profit for the advertisement it would give them and in view of future contracts with the same firm which it might bring. The largest item in it was the handling of the dirt. They showed me their blue prints and their rough estimate and then Mr. Corkery said: "How much can you take off that, Carleton?"
They were unaffected and business-like but when they spoke it was plain "Carleton" and when I spoke it was "Mr. Corkery," or "Mr. Galvin." That was right and proper enough. They had called me in to consult with me on a big job which they were trying to figure down to the very lowest point.
I didn't trim it as close as I would have done for myself but as it was I took off a fifth the matter of five thousand dollars. When I came back, Mr. Corkery looked over my figures. "Sure you can do that?" he asked. I could see he was surprised. "Yes, sir," I said. "I'd hate like hell to get stuck," he said. "You won't get stuck," I answered.
But perhaps the best English short story of the year in an American magazine was "The Coming of the Terror," by Arthur Machen, since republished in book form. Elsewhere I have discussed at some length the more important volumes of short stories published during the year. "A Munster Twilight," by Daniel Corkery is alone sufficient to mark a notable literary year.
Of course it was something of a chance because Corkery had been giving them steady employment. Still it wasn't a very big chance because there was always work for such men. I watched anxiously to see how they would take it. I felt that the truth of my theories were having their hardest test. When they let out a cheer and started towards me in a mass I saw blurry.
I went to Corkery, gave my notice and told him what I was going to do. He was madder than a hornet. I listened to what he had to say and went off without a word in reply. He was so unreasonable that it didn't seem worth it. That noon I rounded up the men and told them frankly that I was going to start in business for myself and needed a hundred men.
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