three years before, on the understanding that her wages should go to reduce the Widow Flanagan's debt to Mr. Sweeny. No actual cash changed hands. The matter was one of book-keeping. Mrs. Flanagan's debt was not, apparently, greatly reduced; but, perhaps, Delia Flanagan's services were not worth much, and, anyway, book-keeping is a difficult art—the most skillful men sometimes make mistakes in it.
"Please, sir," the girl repeated, "the doctor's within in the shop, and bid me tell you."
"Let him come in here, then. And bring you me a quart of whiskey from the bar, and a couple of tumblers. Is the pigs fed?"
"I'm after feeding them this half-hour."
"Well, get out of this, and be damned!"
Dr. Henaghan entered the room. He was a young man of genteel appearance. He wore a suit of yellow tweed, yellow gaiters strapped round his legs, and yellow boots. He smoked a cigarette. A thin moustache half concealed a feeble mouth. His pale-green eyes were shifty.
"Sit down," said Mr. Sweeny. "I want to talk to you."
"I hope there's nothing wrong with you," said the doctor. "You don't look very fit. You ought to take more exercise. Would you like me to make you up a bottle?"
"Be damned!" said Mr. Sweeny.
The girl tapped at the door again, entered, and
