DUKE 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 
 
 
 

THE INFORMER 
 
NEW BORZOI NOVELS 
 
 THE PROFESSOR’S HOUSE 
 
 by W ilia Cat her 
 
 THE SAILOR’S RETURN 
 
 by David Garnett 
 
 COLD HARBOUR 
 
 by Francis Brett Young 
 
 FIRECRACKERS 
 
 by Carl V an V e c lit e n 
 
 GREEN BUSH 
 
 by John T. Frederick 
 
 THREE KINGDOMS 
 
 by Storm Jameson 
 
 THE INFORMER 
 
 by Liam O’Flaherty 
 
 ST. MAWR 
 
 by D . H . Lawrence 
 
 THUNDERSTORM 
 
 by G. B. Stern 
 
 BENONI 
 
 by K nut H am sun 
 
COPYRIGHT, 1925, BY LIAM O’FLAHERTY 
 
 MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES 
 OF AMERICA 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 in 2017 with funding from 
 Duke University Libraries 
 
 https ://arch i ve . o rg/detai Is/i nfo r m e rOI of la 
 
CHAPTER I 
 
 I T WAS THREE MINUTES TO SIX O’CLOCK IN THE 
 evening of the fifteenth of March 192 — . 
 Francis Joseph McPhillip ran up the concrete 
 steps leading co tne glass-panelled swing door that 
 acted as street entrance to the Dunboy Lodging 
 House. The House, as it was called in Dublin, 
 among criminal and pauperized circles, was a grey 
 concrete building of four stories. It stood on the 
 left-hand side of a wide wind-swept asphalt lane off 
 
 B Road on the south side of the city. A maze 
 
 of slum streets surrounded it. An indefinable smell 
 of human beings living in a congested area filled the 
 air around it. From the building itself, a smell of 
 food and of floors being scrubbed with soap and 
 hot water emanated. 
 
 A drizzling rain was falling from a black bulg- 
 ing sky. Now and again a flock of hailstones, 
 driven by a sudden gust of querulous wind, clattered 
 down the lane, falling in little dancing groups on 
 the hard, perspiring asphalt. 
 
 McPhillip ran up the four steps and peered into 
 the hall hurriedly through the glass door. He put 
 his face so close to the glass that his excited breath 
 
 7 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 caused an immediate blur of vapour on the frozen 
 pane. Then he turned about. He crouched against 
 the angle of the doorway and peered around the 
 corner of the wall, up the lane through which he 
 had just come. He wanted to find out whether 
 anybody was following him. He was a murderer. 
 
 He had killed the secretary of the local branch of 
 the Farmers’ Union during the farm labourers’ strike 
 
 at M in the previous October. Since then he 
 
 had been hiding out in the mountains with a group 
 of men who were evading arrest, brigands, criminals 
 and political refugees. He had just come into Dub- 
 lin half an hour previously on a goods train. The 
 conductor of the train was a member of the Revo- 
 lutionary Organization, to which McPhillip himself 
 had belonged when he shot the Farmers’ Union 
 Secretary. 
 
 He saw nobody of account in the lane. An old 
 woman crossed near the far end. She had a black 
 shawl about her head and in her hand a milk jug, 
 with a corner of the shawl drawn across its mouth 
 to keep out the rain. A man was singing forlornly, 
 facing the kerb on the right-hand side, with his cap 
 held out in front of him. He was begging, but no- 
 body took any notice of him. 
 
 McPhillip’s eyes darted about everywhere, with 
 the speed and acuteness of one who has perfected 
 his detective sensibilities by necessity and long 
 practice. The street was quite safe. He sighed 
 
 8 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 and turned about to survey the interior of the 
 House. 
 
 He was a man of middle size and slightly built, 
 but his shoulders were broad enough for a giant. 
 His body narrowed down from the shoulders, so that 
 the hips and waist were totally out of proportion 
 to the upper part of the body. His right leg opened 
 outwards in a curve below the knee and he placed 
 the toe of the right foot on the ground before the 
 heel when he walked, so that his walk had the 
 crouching appearance of a wild animal stalking in a 
 forest. His face was thin and sallow. His hair 
 was black and cropped close. His eyebrows were 
 black and bushy. His eyelashes were long and they 
 continually drooped over his eyes. When his eye- 
 lashes drooped his eyes were blue, sharp and fierce. 
 But when he raised his lashes for a moment to think 
 of something distant and perhaps imaginary, his 
 eyes were large, wistful and dreamy. They were 
 soft and full of a sorrow that was unfathomable. 
 His jaws were square, sharp and fleshless. His lips 
 were thin and set tightly. This gave the lower part 
 of his face a ferocious appearance. His nose was 
 long and straight. His cheeks were hollow and on 
 the cheekbones a bright flush appeared when he was 
 seized with a fit of hard, dry coughing which he 
 tried to suppress. 
 
 He was dressed in a shabby pair of wrinkled navy 
 blue trousers and a fawn-coloured, shabby raincoat, 
 
 9 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 buttoned lip around his throat like a uniform. His 
 boots were old and thin. They creaked with 
 moisture soaked in through their torn soles. He 
 wore a grey tweed cap. Under his left armpit he 
 carried an automatic pistol in a leather holster. The 
 pistol hung from a lanyard that was suspended from 
 his neck. 
 
 As he stood looking in through the door, the fin- 
 gers of his right hand were thrust in between the 
 first and second buttons of his raincoat. The tips 
 of the fingers rested on the cold butt of the auto- 
 matic. 
 
 Within the hall three old men were waiting in a 
 row outside the closed glass window of the office on 
 the right-hand side. The nearest old man to the 
 door wore a brown pauper’s uniform. Both his 
 eyes had cataracts and he seemed to be on the 
 point of going into a faint. He was leaning on a 
 stick and his head kept bobbing like a man that is 
 in a drunken stupor and is on the point of falling 
 asleep. The second old man wore a torn old dress 
 suit. He looked like a waiter thrown out of em- 
 ployment through old age. He had a sharp lean 
 face. The farthest old man was dressed in a med- 
 ley of unspeakable rags and he shook his body con- 
 tinually trying to scratch himself on the insides of 
 his clothes. The three of them stood in silence. 
 Beyond them, four more concrete steps led to a long 
 passage through the building. A corridor crossed 
 
 10 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 the passage at the far end. Men passed along the 
 corridor now and again in groups. 
 
 McPhillip was about to push through the door 
 when the glass panel was pulled up with a screech 
 and a man’s head appeared at the window. The 
 man cracked his thumb and forefinger and motioned 
 the nearest old man to approach, the old man 
 dressed in rags. The old man started and cried 
 out in a weak, childish voice: “Oh be Janey I’d 
 forgotten.” Smiling weakly and muttering to him- 
 self he began to rummage among his rags. The man 
 at the window looked at him, pursed up his lips 
 angrily and disappeared. 
 
 Presently he reappeared from around the corner 
 of the office. He came up to the old man and stood 
 in front of him with his hands on his hips and 
 his legs spread wide apart. His neat blue trousers 
 were perfectly creased. He was in his shirt sleeves, 
 so that his diamond sleeve links and the large 
 diamond in his tie flashed in the half darkness. 
 His hair was glued to his head with perfumed oil. 
 Its odour pervaded the whole hallway. He looked 
 at the old man with an expression of mixed contempt 
 and anger. The two other old men began to snigger 
 fawningly and tried to appear to have absolutely 
 no connection with the ragged old man. 
 
 At last the ragged old man found a red handker- 
 chief, and in his excitement he could not undo the 
 knot that bound it together in a ball. 
 
 11 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 “Here,” he cried, holding out the handkerchief 
 to the clerk, “there are five pennies and four half- 
 pennies there. Me fingers are all stiff with the 
 rheumatism an’ I can’t untie it. Maybe ye’d do 
 it for me for th’ honour o’ God?” 
 
 Then he looked up into the clerk’s face with his 
 mouth open. But the clerk, without taking any 
 notice of the handkerchief, was looking at the old 
 man’s face as if he were going to strike him. The 
 old man began to tremble. 
 
 “Get out of here,” yelled the clerk suddenly in 
 a thunderous voice. 
 
 Then he became motionless again. The old man 
 began to babble and shiver. He turned about and 
 shuffled down the steps to the door, scratching his 
 shoulder-blades against his clothes as he moved. He 
 went down two steps and then paused uncertainly 
 and looked behind him. Then he shuddered, took 
 another step, lost his balance and slipped. He 
 slithered to tire door on his buttocks. The other 
 two old men began to laugh and titter. The clerk 
 scowled at them. “What are ye laughing at?” he 
 cried. They stopped immediately. “Hey you,” he 
 continued, pointing his finger at the ragged old man, 
 who had reached the street outside and was standing 
 irresolutely on the kerb looking back over his 
 shoulders. “If I catch you here again, you old 
 fool, I’ll hand you over to the police. Go away now 
 
 12 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 and get into the workhouse where you belong. 
 Huh!” 
 
 The old man wrinkled up his monkey-like face 
 into a grimace of surprise and misery. He cast a 
 terrified look at the haggard face of McPhillip, that 
 peered at him out of the angle of the wall to the 
 left of the door. Then he mumbled something 
 and set off down the lane at a broken trot. The 
 other two old men in the hall began to whisper to 
 one another as soon as the clerk turned his bacn 
 and walked back into the office. 
 
 “Be the holy,” said one, “he should be shot, wha?” 
 
 “So he should,” whined the other old man, “the 
 dirty, rotten — to be goin’ about like that.” 
 
 Then they shuffled up to the window for their 
 bed tickets. The clerk swore at them and called 
 them filthy names, but they kept apologizing to 
 him and sniggering. 
 
 While the two old men were getting their bed 
 tickets at the window, McPhillip pushed through 
 the door quietly and slipped along the hall. He 
 turned to the right at the far end. He stopped 
 there. He leaned up against the wall casually, took 
 a cigarette from his pocket and lit it. He looked 
 around examining the passage. It was a wide cor- 
 ridor with a concrete floor and walls of glazed brick. 
 There were windows at regular intervals opening 
 on a large yard at the rear of the building. In the 
 
 13 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 alcoves formed by the windows seats were placed. 
 By the opposite wall there were spittoons placed 
 at equal distances of three yards or so. Men were 
 strewn along the passage in groups, some sitting on 
 the seats conversing in low voices, others walking 
 up and down singly or in pairs, with their eyes 
 on the ground and their hands muffed behind their 
 backs in their coat sleeves. They were all wretch- 
 edly dressed and melancholy. Some were quite 
 young, but their faces had already assumed the 
 dejected appearance that is usually found only in 
 the faces of old men who have been disappointed in 
 life. 
 
 Puffing at his cigarette slowly, McPhillip exam- 
 ined the hall and the men who passed, with the 
 same quick, sharp cunning with which he had exam- 
 ined the street. Again he could see nobody that 
 aroused his interest. Again he sighed gently and 
 moved away to the right. He entered a large room 
 through a swing door. 
 
 The room was crowded. It was furnished* with 
 long tables and wooden forms, like a cafe for the 
 working class. There were newspapers on some 
 tables. On others there were games or draughts 
 and dominoes. Men sat at all the tables. Some 
 read. Others played games. The majority, how- 
 ever, sat in silence, their eyes staring vacantly in 
 front of them, contemplating the horror of their 
 lives. Those who could find no seat stood about 
 
 14 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 the tables, watching the progress of the games, 
 with their hands in their pockets and their faces 
 set in an expression of stolid and absent-minded in- 
 difference. 
 
 McPhillip walked about from one table to an- 
 other, his cigarette in his left hand, the fingers of his 
 right hand clutching the butt of his automatic, 
 between the two top buttons of his raincoat. No- 
 body noticed him. The melancholy eyes, that were 
 raised casually to look, saw only another shabby 
 wreck like themselves. Even had his identity been 
 suddenly disclosed by means of a loud trumpet to 
 the men in that room, it is questionable whether the 
 news would have occasioned excitement in more 
 than a few breasts. Casual workers, casual crim- 
 inals and broken old men, their connection with 
 the ordered scheme of civilized life, with its moral 
 laws and its horror of crime, was so thin and weak 
 that they were unable to feel the interest that mur- 
 der arouses in the tender breasts of our wives and 
 sisters. 
 
 McPhillip examined the room carefully without 
 discovering what he wanted. Then he walked out 
 into the corridor again. He entered another room 
 that was used by the occupants of the lodging-house 
 for the purpose of writing letters. That room was 
 empty. Then he descended a stairway to the lava- 
 tories and bathrooms. Here men were shaving and 
 washing themselves. He walked about and dis- 
 
 15 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 covered nobody. He came up again into the cor- 
 ridor and entered the dining-room. 
 
 The dining-room was very large and furnished 
 with small deal tables and long forms of the same 
 material. The wooden floor was covered with saw- 
 dust, like the floor of a slum public-house. Here 
 and there the sawdust was mixed with refuse that 
 had been swept from the tables. At the far end 
 of the room a great number of men were gathered 
 around an immense range, some with frying-pans 
 in their hands awaiting their turn to cook, others 
 rushing about attending to cooking utensils that 
 were already on the range. They all had knives, 
 spoons and forks in their hands. They were 
 jostling, perspiring, cursing, laughing and scratching 
 themselves. There was a great din of voices and 
 a smell of food and of human bodies. 
 
 At the other end of the room there was a counter 
 and behind the counter a large bright kitchen, shin- 
 ing bright with white crockery, polished brasses 
 and the clean white uniforms of the women who 
 served in it. Three young women were there cook- 
 ing and serving food, for the lodgers who had not 
 the means or the inclination to prepare their own 
 food. These lodgers stood at the counter buying 
 tea, bread and butter, cooked eggs and meat. They 
 also purchased knives, forks, spoons and salt, be- 
 cause these necessities were not provided by the 
 management in the lodging-house, owing to the 
 
 16 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 moral character of the lodgers, except on payment 
 of a fixed sum, which was returned at the conclu- 
 sion of the meal, when the articles were handed 
 back at the counter. 
 
 McPhillip walked down across the room to the 
 far side. He had seen the man he sought at the 
 first glance. He walked straight to a table by the 
 wall at the far side. At that table a young man of 
 thirty or so was eating his supper. 
 
 He ate off an enamelled plate that was loaded 
 high with potatoes, coarse cabbage and a large piece 
 of boiled bacon. A great steam rose from the plate 
 and twisted up towards the ceiling in front of the 
 man’s face. The man was dressed in a suit of blue 
 dungarees, with a white muffler wound round and 
 round his neck. He had a close-cropped bullet- 
 shaped head, fair hair and dark eyebrows. The eye- 
 brows were just single tufts, one over the centre 
 of each eye. They grew long and narrowed to a 
 single hair, like the ends of waxed moustaches. 
 They were just like ominous snouts, and they had 
 more expression than the dim little blue eyes that 
 were hidden away behind their scowling shadows. 
 The face was bronzed red and it was covered by 
 swellings that looked like humps at a distance. 
 These humps came out on the forehead, on the 
 cheekbones, on the chin and on either side of the 
 neck below the ears. On close observation, how- 
 ever, they almost disappeared in the general glossy 
 
 17 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 colour of the brownish red skin, that looked as 
 if there were several tiers of taut skin covering the 
 face. The nose was short and bulbous. The mouth 
 was large. The lips were thick and they fitted 
 together in such a manner that the mouth gave 
 the face an expression of being perpetually asleep. 
 His body was immense, with massive limbs and 
 bulging muscles pushing out here and there, like 
 excrescences of the earth breaking the expected 
 regularity of a country-side. He sat upright in his 
 seat, with his large square head bolted on to his 
 squat neck, like an iron stanchion riveted to a 
 deck. 
 
 He stared straight in front of him as he ate. 
 He held his fork by the handle, upright, in his 
 left hand. He rapped the table with the end of the 
 fork, as if he were keeping time with the rapid 
 crunching of his jaws. But as soon as he saw 
 McPhillip, his jaws stopped moving and the hand 
 holding the fork dropped noiselessly to the table. 
 His face closed up and his body became absolutely 
 motionless. 
 
 McPhillip sat down at the opposite side of the 
 table. He did not speak and he did not express 
 recognition by any sign or movement of his body. 
 But he knew the man quite well. They were bosom 
 friends. The man was Gypo Nolan, McPhillip’s 
 companion during the strike of farm-labourers, when 
 
 18 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 McPhillip had killed the secretary of the Farmers’ 
 Union. Gypo Nolan had once been a policeman 
 in Dublin, but he had been dismissed owing to a 
 suspicion at Headquarters that he was in league with 
 the Revolutionary Organization and had given in- 
 formation to them relative to certain matters that 
 had leaked out. Since then he had been an active 
 member of the Revolutionary Organization and had 
 always acted with Francis Joseph McPhillip, so that 
 they were known in revolutionary circles as the 
 “Devil’s Twins.” 
 
 “Well, Gypo,” said McPhillip at last, “how is 
 things?” 
 
 McPhillip’s voice was cracked and weak, but it 
 had a fierce sincerity that gave it immense force, 
 like the force in the chirping of a tiny bird whose 
 nest is being robbed. 
 
 “Did ye leave them messages I gave ye?” he 
 continued after a moment, during which he gasped 
 for breath. “I didn’t hear anythin’ from home since 
 I saw ye that evenin’ I had to take to the hills. 
 What’s doin’, Gypo?” 
 
 Gypo stared in silence for several moments, 
 breathing slowly, with open mouth and distended 
 eyes. He never spoke. Then he made a strange 
 sound, like a suppressed exclamation, in his throat. 
 He slowly cut a large potato in four pieces with 
 his knife. He transferred one piece to his mouth 
 
 19 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 on the tip of his knife. He began to chew slowly. 
 Then he stopped chewing suddenly and spoke. It 
 was a deep thunderous voice. 
 
 “Where the divil did ye come from, Frankie?” 
 he said. 
 
 “It don’t matter where I come from,” cried Mc- 
 Phillip in an irritated tone. “I got no time to waste 
 passin’ the compliments o’ the season. I came in 
 here to get wise to all the news. Tell us all ye 
 know. First, tell me . . . wait a minute. How 
 about them messages? Did ye deliver them? 
 Don’t mind that grub. Man alive, are ye a savage 
 or what? Here I am with the cops after me for 
 me life an’ ye go on eatin’ yer spuds. Lave down 
 that damn knife or I’ll plug ye. Come on, I’m 
 riskin’ me life to come in here and ask ye a question. 
 Get busy an’ tell me all about it.” 
 
 Gypo sighed easily and wiped his mouth with the 
 back of his right sleeve. Then he put his knife 
 on the table and swallowed his mouthful. 
 
 “Ye were always a cranky fellah,” he growled, 
 “an’ ye don’t seem to be improvin’, with the spring 
 weather. I’ll tell ye if ye hold on a minute. I 
 delivered yer messages, to yer father an’ mother 
 and to the Executive Committee. Yer ol’ man gev 
 me dog’s abuse and drov’ me outa the house, an’ 
 he cursed ye be bell, book an’ candle light. Yer 
 mother followed me out cryin’ an’ put half a quid 
 into me hand to give to ye. I had no way o’ findin’ 
 
 20 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 ye an’ I was hungry mesel’, so I spent it. Well ” 
 
 McPhillip interrupted with a muttered curse. 
 Then he was seized with a fit of coughing. When 
 the fit was over, Gypo went on. 
 
 “Well,” continued Gypo. “Ye know yersel’ what 
 happened with the Executive Committee. They 
 sent a man out to tell ye. I wouldn’t mind them 
 sendin’ a letter to the papers sayin’ they had nothin’ 
 to do with the strike. It ud only be all swank any- 
 way, an’ who cares? But I declare to Christ they 
 near had me plugged when I went in to report. 
 Commandant Gallagher was goin’ to send down men 
 to plug ye too, but lots o’ the other fellahs got around 
 him and he didn’t. Anyway I was fired out o’ the 
 Organization as well as yersel’, although ye know 
 yersel’, Frankie, that I had nothin’ to do with firin’ 
 that shot. An’ ” 
 
 “What the — ” began McPhillip angrily, rapping 
 the table; but again he began to cough. Gypo went 
 on without taking notice of the coughing. 
 
 “The police arrested me, but they could find no 
 evidence, so they gev me an awful beatin’ and threw 
 me out. I ben wanderin’ around since without a dog 
 to lick me trousers, half starvin’!” 
 
 “What do I want to know about the Executive 
 Committee?” grumbled McPhillip angrily, recover- 
 ing his breath. “I don’t want to hear anything 
 about executive committees or revolutionary organi- 
 zations, me curse on the lot o’ them. I want to hear 
 
 21 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 about me father an’ mother. What about ’em, 
 Gypo?” 
 
 Gypo expanded his thick under lip and stared at 
 McPhillip with distended eyes. His eyes seemed to 
 hold an expression of sadness in their dim recesses, 
 but it was hard to say. The face was so crude and 
 strong that the expression that might be termed 
 sadness in another face was mere wonder in his. 
 For the first time he had noticed the pallor of Mc- 
 Phillip’s face, the hectic flush, the fits of coughing, 
 the jerky movements and the evident terror in the 
 eyes that used to be so fearless. 
 
 “Frankie,” cried Gypo in his deep, slow, passion- 
 less voice, “yer sick. Man alive, ye look as if ye 
 were dyin’.” 
 
 McPhillip started and looked about him hurriedly 
 as if he expected to see death there behind his back 
 waiting to pounce upon him. 
 
 “Have a bite,” continued Gypo, “ ’twill warm 
 ye up.” 
 
 At the same time he himself began to eat again 
 fiercely, like a great strong animal, tackling the soli- 
 tary meal of its day. The large red hands with just 
 stumps of fingers held the knife and fork so pon- 
 derously that those frail instruments seemed to run 
 the danger of being crushed, like some costly thing 
 picked up on the tip of an elephant’s trunk. But 
 McPhillip did not follow the invitation. He looked 
 angrily at the food for several seconds with wrinkled 
 
 22 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 forehead, as if he were trying to remember what 
 it was and what it was for, and then he spoke 
 again. 
 
 “I know I’m dyin’, Gypo, an’ that’s why I came 
 in. I got the consumption.” Gypo started. He 
 was struck at that moment by an insane and mon- 
 strous idea. “I came in to get some money from 
 me mother. An’ I wanted to see her before I die. 
 Good God, it was awful, Gypo, out there on them 
 hills all the winter, with me gun in me hand night 
 an’ day, sleeping in holes on the mountains, with 
 the winds blowin’ about me all night, screechin’ like 
 a pack o’ devils, an’ every blast o’ them winds spoke 
 with a man’s voice, an’ I lyin’ there listenin’ to 
 them. Good God ” 
 
 Again he began to cough and he had to stop. 
 Gypo was not listening to him. He had not heard 
 a word. A monstrous idea had prowled into his 
 head, like an uncouth beast straying from a wilder- 
 ness into a civilized place where little children are 
 alone. He did not hear McPhillip’s words or his 
 coughing, although the monstrous idea was in relation 
 to McPhillip. 
 
 “So I said to mesel’, that I might as well chance 
 me arm be cornin’ into town as lyin’ out there, 
 starvin’ to death with the cold an’ hunger an’ this 
 cough. So I came along here to see ye, Gyp, first, 
 so as to get a bead on what’s doin’. Have they got 
 a guard on the house?” 
 
 23 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 “Divil a guard,” replied Gypo suddenly, and then 
 he started and stretched out his right hand towards 
 McPhillip with a little exclamation. His eyes were 
 wild and his mouth was wide open like the mouth 
 of a man looking at a spectre. Gypo’s mind was 
 looking at that uncouth ogre that was prowling about 
 in his brain. 
 
 McPhillip leaned across the table. Gradually his 
 eyes narrowed into an intense stare of ferocity. 
 His lips curled up and his forehead wrinkled. He 
 began to tremble. 
 
 “What is it, Gypo?” he hissed. “Tell me, Gyp, 
 or I’ll . . .” He made a rapid movement with the 
 wrist of the hand that clutched his automatic. “The 
 cops are after me, Gyp, an’ I’m dyin’, so I don’t 
 mind how I use the twenty-four rounds I got left. 
 I’ve notched their noses so they can make a quare 
 hole. There’s one for mesel’ too.” He shuddered 
 as if at the thought of a tender pleasure. Then he 
 scowled fiercely and half drew the butt of his pistol 
 from his pocket. His voice was almost inaudible. 
 “Tell me the truth about how things stand without 
 any jig actin’ or I’ll plug ye.” 
 
 He glared at Gypo, his hand on his pistol, his 
 right arm rigid to the shoulder, ready to draw the 
 gun and fire in one movement. Gypo stared him in 
 the eyes without any emotion, either of fear or of 
 surprise. With the nail of his right forefinger he 
 abstracted a string of meat from between two teeth. 
 
 24 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 He spluttered with his lips and then he shrugged his 
 shoulders. The spectre had suddenly gone out of 
 his mind without his being able to make head or tail 
 of it. 
 
 “No use talkin’ like that to me, Frankie,” he 
 murmured lazily. “The only reason why I didn’t 
 want to say anythin’ was because I didn’t like 
 to . . Again the ghoulish thing came into his 
 mind and he stopped with a start. But almost im- 
 mediately he continued in a forced voice. He was be- 
 ginning to be ashamed of that spectre as if he had 
 already given way to the horrid suggestions it made, 
 although he did not at all comprehend those sug- 
 gestions. “I didn’t like to maybe send ye into harm’s 
 way. Ye see, I don’t know if there’s a guard on 
 yer father’s house or if there’s not. I generally 
 knock around Titt Street, but I haven’t been near 
 No. 44 since that night I went there with yer message 
 an’ yer ol’ man told me never to darken his door 
 again. There may be a guard on it or there may 
 be no guard on it. But if I told ye there wasn’t and 
 ye went there and got nabbed, ye know ” 
 
 “What are ye drivin’ at, Gypo?” growled Mc- 
 Phillip suspiciously. 
 
 “Nothin’ at all,” said Gypo with a great deep 
 laugh. “But it’s how ye’ve come in on me so sudden, 
 an’ I don’t know right what I’m talkin’ about. Ye 
 see, I’m all mixed up for the last six months, wan- 
 derin’ around here, without a mate that ud give me 
 
 25 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 a tanner for a flop if I were to die o’ the cold lyin’ in 
 O’Connell’s Street with a foot o’ frost on the ground. 
 They ” 
 
 “Oh, shut up about yersel’ an’ the frost an’ tell us 
 somethin’.” 
 
 “Now don’t get yer rag out, Frankie. I was 
 cornin’ to that. I was cornin’ to it, man. They held 
 me up in the street the other day and had a long 
 talk about ye. They’re after ye yet all right. Ser- 
 geant McCartney an’ another fellah from Sligo was 
 there. That Detective-Sergeant McCartney is a bad 
 lot. Huh, he’s a rascal, an’ no goin’ behind a wall 
 to say it. He swore to me that he’d get ye dead or 
 alive. ‘I wouldn’t care much for yer job then,’ says 
 I to him, just like that, an’ he gave me an eye that ud 
 knock ye stiff.” 
 
 “He says he’s goin’ to get me, did he?” murmured 
 McPhillip dreamily. Suddenly his mind seemed to 
 wander away and he lost interest in his present sur- 
 roundings. His eyes rested vacantly on the table, 
 about a foot away to the right. 
 
 Gypo looked hurriedly at the spot upon which Mc- 
 Phillip’s eyes were fixed. He saw nothing. He 
 looked back again at McPhillip’s face and wrinkled 
 up his forehead. Then he made a noise in his throat 
 and began to eat once more with great rapidity. He 
 breathed on his food, to cool it, as he put it into his 
 jaws. He made noises. 
 
 McPhillip stared at the table for a long time. His 
 26 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 right hand toyed nervously with the butt of his 
 pistol. His left hand rapped the table. Then a 
 strange sparkle came into his eyes. He laughed sud- 
 denly. It was a strange laugh. It made Gypo start. 
 
 “What’s th.e matter, Frankie?” he asked in a 
 terrified voice. 
 
 “Nothin’ atall,” said McPhillip, shaking himself. 
 “Gimme somethin’ t’ eat.” 
 
 He began to eat ravenously, using his penknife as a 
 knife and fork. He had not eaten for a long time. 
 He did not taste the food but gulped it down at a 
 great speed. 
 
 Gypo ate also, but he kept staring at McPhillip 
 while he ate. Every time his wandering little eyes 
 reached McPhillip’s eyes they narrowed and became 
 very sharp. Then he would roll his tongue around 
 in his cheek and make a sucking sound. 
 
 At last McPhillip stopped eating. He wiped his 
 penknife on his trousers and put it into his pocket. 
 
 “Gypo,” he said slowly, “are there any cops 
 watchin’ our house, the old man’s place in Titt 
 Street?” 
 
 Gypo shook his head three times in reply. His 
 mouth was full. Then he swallowed his mouthful, 
 he put his fork to his forehead and set to thinking. 
 
 “Lemme see,” he said at last. “Yeh. They had 
 two cops watchin’ the place until after Christmas. 
 Then they took ’em off. They didn’t put any on 
 since as far as I know, but I believe that a fellah goes 
 
 27 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 around there now an’ again to make inquiries. O’ 
 course they might have secret-service men on it as 
 well. God only knows who’s givin’ information to 
 the Government now, an’ who isn’t. Ye never know 
 who yer talkin’ to. I never in me life saw anythin’ 
 like it. Tell ye what, Frankie, the workin’ class is 
 not worth fightin’ for. They think yer gone to the 
 United States, but all the same it might be dangerous 
 goin’ down there now. I’m sorry I have no money 
 to give ye, so as ye could ” 
 
 “Where the divil did ye get all the gab?” cried 
 McPhillip suddenly, looking suspiciously at Gypo. 
 “I never knew ye to let out all that much talk in a 
 day, or maybe a whole week. Are ye goin’ to the 
 university now in yer spare time or what ails ye?” 
 
 McPhillip began to rap the table again. There 
 was silence. Gypo nonchalantly transferred the 
 scraps from his plate to his mouth on the flat of his 
 knife. When the plate was completely cleaned up 
 he rattled the knife and fork on to it. Then he 
 stuck out his massive chest and rubbed his palms 
 along it. 
 
 Suddenly McPhillip swore and jumped to his feet. 
 He stood, as if in a dream, looking at the table for 
 several moments. Gypo watched his face, with his 
 little tufted eyebrows quivering. At the same time 
 he cleaned his teeth with his left thumb-nail. At 
 last McPhillip drew in a deep breath through his 
 teeth, making a noise as if he were sucking ice. 
 
 28 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 “Right,” he said, with his eyes still on the table. 
 “My ould fellah is at home now, is he?” 
 
 “Yes,” said Gypo. “I saw him yesterday. He 
 was over in the ’Pool on a job, but he’s back this 
 fortnight. I think he’s workin’ on a new house out 
 in Rathmines.” 
 
 “Right,” said McPhillip again. Then he raised 
 his eyes, looked at Gypo fiercely and smiled in a 
 curious fashion. “See ye again, Gypo, unless the 
 cops get me.” 
 
 As he spoke he seemed to think of something. His 
 face quivered and darkened. Then he shrugged his 
 shoulders and laughed outright. He nodded twice 
 and turned on his heel. He strode hurriedly out of 
 the room. 
 
 Gypo looked after him for a long time without 
 moving. He had finished cleaning his teeth. He 
 just stared at the door through which McPhillip had 
 disappeared. Then gradually his mind began to fill 
 with suggestions. His forehead wrinkled up. His 
 body began to fidget. At last he jumped to his feet. 
 He collected the plate, the knife and fork and the 
 salt. He walked into the passage and put them in a 
 locker, which was provided by the management for 
 the lodgers. The locker did not belong to Gypo. 
 He had no locker because he was merely a casual 
 lodger since he had no regular income to pay for a 
 bed by the week. The locker belonged to a carter 
 of Gypo’s acquaintance. Gypo had seen the man 
 
 29 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 put his next-day’s dinner in the locker and go away 
 without turning the key. Gypo knew also that the 
 man would not be back until ten o’clock that night. 
 So he took the dinner. 
 
 He placed the things in the locker and walked away 
 casually. He sat on the corner of a seat in one of 
 the alcoves. He rummaged in the pockets of his dun- 
 garees and collected several minute scraps of cigar- 
 ettes. He carefully unrolled the scraps, collecting all 
 the tobacco in the palm of his right hand. Then he 
 begged a cigarette paper from an old man who sat 
 beside him. The old man had none and said so with 
 an angry curse. Gypo wrinkled his forehead and 
 sniffed as if he were smelling the old man. Then 
 he turned to a young man who passed and requested 
 a cigarette paper. The young man halted and sup- 
 plied one grudgingly. Gypo took the paper in 
 silence, without a word or a nod of thanks. He 
 rolled his cigarette and lit it at the gas jet. Then he 
 sat down again, crossed his legs, let his body go limp 
 and began to smoke. 
 
 His ears seemed to stick out very far, as he lay 
 back limply in the seat, in the half-darkness of the 
 corridor. 
 
 For a minute the odour and the taste of the to- 
 bacco held him in a state of enjoyment. He did not 
 think either of the fact that he had no bed for the 
 night or of his meeting with McPhillip. Then grad- 
 ually his forehead began to wrinkle and furrow. His 
 
 30 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 little tufted eyebrows began to twitch. When he 
 pulled at his cigarette his face was enshrouded in a 
 bright glow and the humps on his face stood out, 
 glistening and smooth. He began to shift about in 
 his seat. First he uncrossed his legs. Then he 
 crossed them again. He began to tap his knee with 
 his right hand. He sighed. His cigarette wore out 
 until it was burning his lips without his becoming 
 aware of the fact. Then he spluttered it out of his 
 mouth on to his chest and he jumped to his feet. 
 
 He stood looking at the ground with his hands 
 deep in his trousers pockets. He seemed to be deep 
 in thought, but he was not thinking. At least there 
 was no concrete idea fixed in his mind. Two facts 
 rumbled about in his brain, making that loud prime- 
 val noise, which is the beginning of thought and 
 which tired people experience when the jaded brain 
 has spun out the last threads of its energy. There 
 were two facts in his brain. First, the fact of his 
 meeting with McPhillip. Second, the fact of his 
 having no money to buy a bed for the night. 
 
 These two facts stood together in an amorphous 
 mass. But he could not summon up courage to 
 tackle them and place them in proper juxtaposition 
 and reason out their relationship. He just stood 
 looking at the ground. 
 
 Then a drunken bookmaker’s clerk named Shana- 
 han brushed against him. He stepped aside with a 
 muttered oath. He pulled one hand from his pocket 
 
 31 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 to strike, with the fingers extended in the shape of a 
 bird’s claws. Shanahan, doubled up in the middle 
 by the helplessness of intoxication, stared at Gypo 
 with blue eyes that had gone almost completely red. 
 Gypo turned away with a shrug of his shoulders. 
 At any other time he would gladly have availed him- 
 self of this opportunity of begging a shilling from 
 Shanahan. Shanahan was always good for the loan of 
 a shilling when he was drunk. A shilling would pro- 
 cure Gypo a bed for the night and leave a little for a 
 light breakfast in the morning. Ten minutes ago, a 
 recontre of this sort would have been a godsend to 
 Gypo. But now, those two cursed facts stood in 
 his brain, making him unconscious of everything 
 else. 
 
 He walked out of the House and up the lane to- 
 wards B — Road. 
 
 He walked with his hands deep in his pockets, 
 slowly, with his thighs brushing on the insides as he 
 walked. He seemed to haul his big boots after him, 
 bringing them as near the ground as possible. His 
 hips moved up and down as his feet went forward. 
 His eyes were on the ground. His lips were dis- 
 tended outwards. His little torn, brown, slouch hat 
 was perched incongruously on the top of his head, 
 much too small for his large square skull, with the 
 brim turned up closely all around. When a squall of 
 wind, laden with little sharp hailstones, struck him 
 across the face and body, his clothes puffed out and 
 
 32 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 he curled up his short stubby nose in an angry grin. 
 
 He was looking into the window of a saddler’s shop 
 in Dame Street, when the relationship between the 
 two facts became known to him. He was looking 
 at a pair of bright spurs and his face contorted 
 suddenly. His eyes bulged as if he were taken with 
 a fit of terror. He looked about him suspiciously, 
 as if he were about to steal something for the first 
 time. Then he rushed away hurriedly. He moved 
 through lanes and alleyways to the river. He crossed 
 the street to the river wall. He leaned his elbows 
 on the wall and spat into the dark water. With 
 his chin resting on his arms, he stood perfectly still, 
 thinking. 
 
 He was contemplating the sudden discovery that 
 his mind had made, about the relationship between 
 his having no money for a bed and his having met 
 Francis Joseph McPhillip, who was wanted for mur- 
 der in connection with the farm-labourers’ strike at 
 
 M in the previous October. A terrific silence 
 
 reigned within his head. 
 
 Now and again he looked around him with a kind 
 of panting noise. He snorted and smelled the air 
 and screwed up his eyes. Then he leaned over the 
 wall again and rested his chin on his crossed hands. 
 He was that way for half an hour. Then at last he 
 drew himself up straight. He stretched his arms 
 above his head. Fie yawned. He stuck his hands 
 in his trousers pockets. He stared at the ground. 
 
 33 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 Then with his eyes on the ground he walked away 
 at the same slouching pace as before. 
 
 He crossed the river and traversed a maze of side 
 streets, with his eyes always on the ground, until he 
 reached the corner of a dark side street, that had a 
 bright lamp hanging over a doorway, half-way down 
 on the right-hand side. That was a police-station. 
 He stared at the lamp with his eyes wide open for 
 several moments. Almost a minute. Then he said 
 “Huh” out loud. Then he looked around him cau- 
 tiously on all sides. 
 
 The street was empty. Rain drizzled slowly. He 
 examined the street, the warehouses on his side of the 
 street, the blank wall on the other side. Then his 
 eyes came back to the bright lamp that hung above 
 the door of the police-station. He sighed deeply and 
 began to walk slowly, ever so slowly and ponder- 
 ously, towards the lamp. 
 
 He walked up the steps, steadily, one at a time, 
 making a loud noise. He kicked the swing door open 
 with his foot without taking his hands out of his 
 pockets. In the hallway, a constable in a black, 
 cone-shaped, night helmet stood facing him, pulling 
 on his gloves. Gypo halted and stared at the con- 
 stable. 
 
 “I have come to claim the twenty pounds reward 
 offered by the Farmers’ Union for information con- 
 cerning Francis Joseph McPhillip,” he said in a 
 deep, low voice. 
 
 34 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 A t thirty-five minutes past seven Francis 
 Joseph McPhillip shot himself dead while 
 trying to escape from No. 44 Titt Street, his 
 father’s house. The house had been surrounded by 
 Detective-Sergeant McCartney and ten men. Hang- 
 ing by his left hand from the sill of the back-bed- 
 room window on the second floor, McPhillip put 
 two bullets into McCartney’s left shoulder. While 
 he was trying to fire again, his left hand slipped and 
 lost its hold. The pistol muzzle struck the edge of 
 the sill. The bullet shot upwards and entered Mc- 
 Phillip’s brain through the right temple. 
 
 When they picked him out of the orange box in 
 the back garden where he fell, he was quite dead. 
 
 35 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 T TWENTY-FIVE MINUTES PAST EIGHT GyPO 
 
 left the police-station by a door in the rear 
 
 of the building. In his pocket he carried 
 twenty pounds in Treasury notes, the reward for 
 information concerning Francis Joseph McPhillip. 
 
 He walked quickly along a narrow passage into a 
 dark lane. The lane was empty. So it appeared at 
 first. But as Gypo stood hidden in the doorway of 
 an old empty house, piercing the darkness with wild 
 eyes, he heard a footstep. The footstep made him 
 start. It was the first human footstep he had heard, 
 the first sound of his fellow human beings, since he 
 had become an informer and . . . and an outcast. 
 
 Immediately he felt that the footstep was menac- 
 ing, as if he were certain that it belonged to some- 
 body that was tracking him. How strange! Within 
 the course of ninety minutes the customary sound of 
 a human footstep had, by some evil miracle, become 
 menacing. Ninety minutes ago, his ears would not 
 have challenged the sound of a human footstep, no 
 more than they would have challenged the sound of 
 the breath coming normally from his lungs. But 
 
 36 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 now they pricked into attention at the trudging 
 shuffle that approached from the left. His heart 
 began to pant. 
 
 Of course it was nobody of consequence. It was 
 only a ragged old woman of ill fame, with a de- 
 bauched face and melancholy eyes. She paused 
 drunkenly in front of him, muttering something un- 
 intelligible. Then she bared her ragged teeth. She 
 spat and passed on without speaking. Was it an 
 omen? Gypo did not notice that it was. He merely 
 listened to the sound of her footsteps, splashing 
 carelessly through the pools. 
 
 Then he looked ahead of him furtively and moved 
 off with the careful listening, stooping movement of 
 a man wandering alone at night in a forest gorge 
 where lions are about. He turned a corner and came 
 face to face with a blaze of light and a street with 
 shops and crowds of people going about. At first he 
 shuddered with fear. Then he swore and drew in a 
 deep breath. What had he to fear? He knew the 
 street well. Who was going to interfere with him? 
 His giant fists clawed up, like talons enraged, and 
 the muscles of his throat and shoulders stiffened. 
 He imagined himself throttling these enemies who 
 might be inclined to assault him. He felt comforted, 
 reminded by this pressure of his muscles, of his 
 enormous strength. He settled his little round hat 
 jauntily on the back of his head. He stuck his hands 
 in his trousers pockets. He swung his legs and 
 
 37 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 rolled like a sailor out of the lane, arrogantly, into 
 the glare of the street. 
 
 At the same slow, swinging, rolling gait, he crossed 
 the street through the traffic without pausing, with- 
 out stepping aside, without looking to the right or to 
 the left. Motor-cars, carts, bicycles and wagons 
 swerved to avoid him. He went through them with- 
 out looking at them, like a great monster walking 
 through a cloud of ants, that are carrying on their 
 futile and infinitesimal labours about his feet. They 
 turned towards him to curse, but those that saw his 
 face gaped and passed into the night with the curse 
 unuttered. His face, with the humps on it shining 
 in the glare of the lamps, was like a subtle mask. It 
 was so ... so dead. 
 
 He walked straight across the pavement into a 
 public-house. He kicked the swing door open with 
 his foot, without taking his hands out of his pockets, 
 just as he had entered the police-station. He put a 
 pound note on the counter with a slap of his palm 
 and uttered the one word: ‘Tint.” He stared at the 
 counter until the drink was served. He put the 
 measure to his head, opened his throat and swallowed 
 the contents at one draught. He uttered a deep 
 sigh and handed the empty glass to the barman. 
 He nodded. When he received another pint and 
 his change, he walked over to the corner and sat 
 down. 
 
 Now he definitely set out to form a plan of action. 
 
 38 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 It had been a habit with McPhillip and himself. 
 Whenever they had done any “stunt,” they immedi- 
 ately went into a public-house, got drinks and set 
 about forming plans for an alibi. 
 
 “Never bother about yer ‘getaway’ until yer job 
 is done,” used to be a motto of McPhillip’s. 
 
 Suddenly Gypo realized what a clever fellow Mc- 
 Phillip must really have been. He used to make 
 plans so easily. They jumped to his mind one after 
 the other, like lightning. Gypo had never given any 
 thought to the matter of plans. He often used to say 
 to McPhillip with a queer glassy look in his eyes: 
 “Mac, you bite the easy side o’ the cheese. I got to 
 do all the rough work an’ you do all the thinkin’.” 
 Strikes me you get away with it easy, mate.” 
 
 Now, for the first time, he realized the difficulty of 
 making a plan without McPhillip. When he had to 
 think it out for himself it appeared to be devilish 
 work. His brain got all in a tangle and he could 
 make a beginning nowhere. He gathered himself 
 together several times, with set lips and stiffened 
 back, like a horse stiffening for a great tug at an 
 immense weight, but it was no use. He could not 
 overcome the weight that seemed to fall on his brain 
 every time his sensibilities approached it, probing 
 tentatively for information. Sitting on a deal bench 
 at the rear of the bar, with his legs crossed and his 
 pint of porter in his right hand, held in front of him, 
 with his elbow resting on his knee and the froth of 
 
 39 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 the porter dripping from the glass slowly on to the 
 tip of his raised boot, he stared at the ground, in an 
 agony of complicated thought. His little tattered 
 brown hat, perched on the top of his -skull, looked 
 like a magic charm, endowed with reason and know- 
 ledge, mounting guard over his stupid strength. 
 
 He had not even cleared his brain for a beginning 
 with this devilish work of making a plan when he was 
 interrupted by the arrival of Katie Fox. She had sat 
 down beside him before he knew she was there. He 
 was so immersed in his struggles that she nudged 
 him and spoke before he was aware of her pre- 
 sence. 
 
 “How’s things, Gypo?” she cried in her hard thin 
 voice, as she nudged him in the ribs. “Are ye flush 
 enough to give us a wet?” 
 
 Gypo jumped to his feet, spilling half his pint. He 
 gazed at her with fright in his eyes and his chest 
 heaved. Then he recognized her and sat down 
 immediately, flurried and confused by his display of 
 excitement. 
 
 “Hello, Katie,” he muttered, pretending to be 
 vexed, “ye shouldn’t come in that way on a fellah. 
 I look around me an’ there ye are proddin’ me in the 
 ribs. Why the divil didn’t ye shout same as ye 
 always do?” 
 
 She put the backs of her thin, red-veined hands on 
 her hips and stared at him in amazement, partly real, 
 partly born of that love of emphatic gesture and 
 
 40 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 movement and speech which is a peculiar character- 
 istic of the women of the Dublin slums. Katie was 
 a woman of the slums. Her father had been an em- 
 ployee of the Corporation and her mother was a 
 charwoman. As a girl Katie worked in a biscuit 
 factory. Her own beauty of body and the grinding 
 toil in the factory made her discontented. She 
 joined the Revolutionary Organization. That was 
 six years ago. After that, her first plunge from the 
 straight path of the tremendous respectability and 
 conservatism of the slum woman, she was led by 
 excess of feeling into one pitfall after another. 
 Finally she passed out of the ranks of respectability 
 altogether by being expelled from the Revolutionary 
 Organization on a charge of public prostitution. 
 Now she had become an abandoned woman, known 
 as such even among the prostitutes of the brothel 
 quarter, a drug fiend, a slattern, an irresponsible 
 creature. Traces of her young beauty still remained 
 in the deep blue eyes, that were melancholy and 
 tired and twitched at the edges, in her long lean 
 figure now grown emaciated, in her black hair that 
 strayed carelessly about her face from beneath the 
 rim of her ragged red hat. But the mouth, that tell- 
 tale register of vice, had completely lost the sumptu- 
 ous but delicate curves of innocent girlhood and 
 blossoming maturity. The lips hung down at the 
 sides. They were swollen in the middle. Their 
 colour had died out and had been renewed with loud 
 
 41 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 vulgarity by cheap paint. The poor tormented soul 
 peered out of the young face, old before the years had 
 time to wrinkle it, sad, hard and stupefied. 
 
 She thrust out her little chin and turned her head 
 sideways, turning down the corners of her lips farther 
 at one side of her mouth. 
 
 “I thought as much,” she said slowly, contorting 
 her lips and face as she spoke. “That’s why I came 
 in unknownst and sat down beside ye. I saw ye be 
 chance, me fine buck, as I was talkin’ to Biddy Mac 
 over at the corner opposite Kane’s. So I just 
 prowled in to see ye on the quiet. But it’s clear as 
 daylight that ye don’t want to see me. Not while ye 
 got money to fill yersel’ with porter. It was a 
 different story, wasn’t it, this mornin’ when ye begged 
 the price of a cup o’ tay off me, an’ me that didn’t 
 see the colour of a half-crown for three days runnin’. 
 Oh then — — ” 
 
 “Now shut yer gob, will ye,” interrupted Gypo ex- 
 citedly. “It’s just like ye takin’ a man up wrong 
 that way. Sure I didn’t mane anythin’ like that 
 atall. Only ye just came in on me all of a sudden. 
 What are ye havin’?” 
 
 Katie looked at him in high dudgeon, still with her 
 chin thrust out, her head turned sideways, her lips 
 turned downwards and her hands on her hips. She 
 murmured: “Double Gin,” without moving her eyes 
 from Gypo’s face. Gypo arose and slouched up to 
 the counter for the drink. Her eyes followed him 
 
 42 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 shrewdly and she kept nodding her head slowly at 
 his immense back. 
 
 Her relationship with Gypo was of that irregular 
 kind which is hard to describe by means of one word. 
 She was undoubtedly not his wife and in the same 
 manner she could not be called his mistress. But 
 their relationship partook both of the nature of lawful 
 marriage and of the concubinage that is sanctified 
 by natural love. Katie loved Gypo because he was 
 strong, big, silent, perhaps also because he was 
 stupid and her ready slum “smartness” could always 
 outwit his lumbering brain. Whenever Gypo had 
 any money he spent it with her. Sometimes when he 
 was without any money, she brought him home with 
 her and provided him with his breakfast next morn- 
 ing. On the whole they were good friends. During 
 the past six months after Gypo had been expelled 
 from the Revolutionary Organization and left with- 
 out friends or money or employment, Katie had stood 
 between him and death from exposure or starvation. 
 She loved him in her own amazing way. The last 
 remains of her womanhood loved him as she might 
 have loved a mate. But those shreds of love lived 
 charily among the rank weeds of vice that flourished 
 around them. It was only at times that they peeped 
 out and covered the desert waste of her soul with the 
 soft warmth and brilliance of their light. Each 
 kindly act of pity for the lumbering giant was coun- 
 teracted by a score of other acts that were vicious 
 
 43 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 and cruel. While Gypo, with the nonchalance of the 
 healthy strong man, took her for granted as if she 
 were a natural contrivance of life, like fresh air or 
 food. He would only notice her absence when she 
 was needed. 
 
 He brought the gin and handed it to her. She took 
 it in silence. She sipped it slowly, holding it within 
 an inch of her lips, staring at the ground as she 
 drank, shivering now and again, as if the drink were 
 ice cold. Gypo watched her suspiciously out of the 
 corner of his eyes. 
 
 “What brought ye around here anyway?” he said 
 at last. 
 
 He was extremely irritated that she should have 
 come in on him, just at that moment, when he was 
 trying to make a plan, when he had the money of his 
 betrayal hot on his person, without being yet em- 
 balmed by a plausible excuse for its presence. He 
 was irritated, but in a confused and ignorant way. 
 He had not reasoned out a plausible excuse, even for 
 his irritation. 
 
 Katie held her empty glass upside down in her 
 hand and looked at him, with her blue eyes almost 
 shut. 
 
 “Why, what’s the matter with ye, kiddo?” she 
 asked arrogantly, encouraged by the gin. “Why 
 shouldn’t I knock around here if I want to. I’m not 
 employed by a charitable institution at so much an 
 hour to keep out o’ yer honour’s way, ha, ha, when it’s 
 
 44 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 yer lordship’s pleasure to come into this pub. 
 There’s no law agin me cornin’ around this part o’ 
 the city at this hour, is there?” She worked herself 
 into a fit of anger gradually as she spoke. She had 
 an idea that Gypo was concealing something im- 
 portant from her and that her arrival at that moment 
 gave her some power over him. That peculiar intui- 
 tion of the slum woman could pierce the surface of 
 Gypo’s embarrassment, but without being able to 
 probe into the real nature of it. She pushed back 
 her coat with her left hand and put the back of her 
 hand against her reddish frayed blouse below the 
 heart. How slight her breasts werel 
 “Now Katie — ” began Gypo. 
 
 But she interrupted him immediately. She had 
 been only waiting for him to begin to speak in order 
 to interrupt him. She was quite happy when given 
 the opportunity of a “barge” of this description. 
 
 “Go on with ye,” she cried, “pug nose! I know 
 ye, Ya. You’re bum all right. Yer all right as long 
 as ye get nothin’. But as soon as ye can smell yer- 
 sel’ after a good meal an’ there a gingle in yer rags, 
 ye stick yer nose into the air an’ ye know nobody. 
 D’ye know what I’m goin’ to tell ye, Gypo? D’ye 
 know what I’m goin’ to tell ye? Yer a mane, lyin’, 
 deceitful twister an’ I got yer measure from now on. 
 Don’t look for nothin’ from me from now on, my fine 
 bucko. No then; ’twill be little use for ye.” 
 
 Gypo became nervous and shifted his huge body. 
 
 45 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 He wanted to let his left hand fly out and hit her in 
 the jaw. One slight blow would make her senseless. 
 But he had never struck a woman, owing to some 
 obscure prejudice or other. Still, he was terribly 
 tired of her. Now that he had this money on his 
 person, without as yet having decided what to do 
 with it, he wanted to be free from her. 
 
 “You shut up,” he cried angrily, “or I’ll fix ye. 
 Haven’t I given ye a drink?” Then he added half- 
 heartedly: “D’ye want another drink?” 
 
 Katie was still staring at him. Suddenly a change 
 came over her. Something suggested itself to her 
 peculiar reason and she changed her attitude. 
 
 “Don’t mind what I said now, Gypo,” she con- 
 tinued in a low mournful voice, looking at the ground 
 with hanging lower lip, like a person overwhelmed 
 and utterly defeated by some persistent calamity. 
 “God Almighty, the world is so hard that a person 
 loses her mind altogether. Misery, misery, misery 
 an’ nothin’ but misery. Your as bad off as mesel’, 
 Gypo, so ye know what I mane. No man has pity 
 on us. Every hand is agin us because we have got 
 nothin’. Why is that, will ye tell me, Gypo? Is 
 God Himself agin us too? Ha, ha, o’ course we 
 were both of us Communists and members o’ the 
 Revolutionary Organization, so we know there’s no 
 God. But supposin’ there was a God, what the hell 
 is He doin’ ” 
 
 46 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 “Katie,” cried Gypo angrily, “none o’ that talk. 
 Lave God alone.” 
 
 “God forgive me, yer right,” cried Katie, begin- 
 ning to sob. But she pulled herself together sud- 
 denly with surprising speed and turned to Gypo 
 almost sharply. Her eyes narrowed slightly and a 
 quaint weird smile lit up her face. There was a 
 trace of beauty in her face under the influence of 
 the smile, a trace of beauty and merriment. “Tell 
 us where ye got all the money, Gypo. Ye had 
 none this mornin’.” 
 
 Gypo started in spite of himself and glanced at her 
 in terror. He struggled violently, trying to formu- 
 late an excuse for his sudden wealth. He fumed 
 within himself for not having made a plan. Uncon- 
 sciously he cursed McPhillip, whom he had sent to 
 his death, for not having made a plan. He looked at 
 Katie with glaring eyes and open lips. Then he bent 
 towards her, tried to speak and said nothing. But 
 she misunderstood him. 
 
 “Ya,” she said, “I knew ye were yellow. Have 
 ye robbed a church or what, an’ are ye afraid of bein’ 
 turned into a goat be the priests?” 
 
 “Shut up,” he hissed suddenly, gripping at the 
 word “robbery” and hooking a plan on to it. It was 
 a customary word, a friendly thing that he recog- 
 nized, with which he felt at home. He bent down, 
 with quivering face, eager to hurl out the words of 
 
 47 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 his plan before he could forget them again. “It 
 wasn’t a church. It was a sailor off an American 
 ship. I went through him at the back o’ Cassidy’s 
 pub in Jerome Street. But if ye say a word ye know 
 what yer goin’ to get.” 
 
 “Who? Me?” Katie laughed out loud and looked 
 at him with emphatic scorn over her shoulder. 
 “What d’ye take me for? An informer or what?” 
 
 “Who’s an informer?” cried Gypo, gripping her 
 right knee with his left hand. The huge hand closed 
 about the thin frail knee and immediately the whole 
 leg went rigid. Katie’s whole body shrivelled at the 
 mere touch of the vast strength. 
 
 There was silence for a second. Gypo stared at 
 Katie with a look of ignorant fear on his face. The 
 word had terrified and infuriated him. It was the 
 first time he had heard it uttered in the new sense 
 that it now held for him. Katie, hypnotized by the 
 face, panted and looked back at him. 
 
 “What are ye talkin’ about informin’ for?” 
 panted Gypo again, tightening his grip on her knee. 
 He had not meant to hurt. He merely wanted to 
 give emphasis to his words. 
 
 “Lemme go,” screamed Katie, unable to endure 
 the pain any longer and terrified by the look in 
 Gypo’s face and by his strange behaviour. 
 
 Gypo let go immediately. The barman came 
 striding over, wiping his hands in his apron. He 
 pointed toward the door. Gypo got to his feet and 
 
 48 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 stared at the barman, glad to have a man in front of 
 him, against whom he could vent his ignorant rage. 
 He lowered his head and he was about to rush for- 
 ward when Katie hung on to him and cried out. 
 
 “Come on, Gypo,” she cried rapidly, “let’s get 
 out of here. Let him alone, Barney. He’s got a 
 few pints on him. He didn’t mane any harm. 
 Come on, kid.” 
 
 Gypo allowed himself to be dragged out back- 
 wards by the right hand into the street. They stood 
 together on the kerbstone, with Katie’s arm en- 
 twined in his. 
 
 “Come on up to Biddy Burke’s place,” she whis- 
 pered in a friendly tone. “Come on up.” 
 
 In front stretched a main road, brilliantly lighted 
 and thronged with people. The light, the people, 
 the suggestion of gaiety and of freedom attracted 
 Gypo. To the rear stretched a dark, evil-smelling 
 lane. It repelled him. There was where Katie 
 wanted to bring him, down towards the slum district 
 and the brothel quarter. Down there were his own 
 haunts, people who knew him. He feared the dark- 
 ness, the lurking shadows, the suggestion of men 
 hiding in alleyways to attack him. Out there in 
 front he could wander off, among strange people who 
 did not care a straw about informers. 
 
 “Come on Gyp, down to Biddy’s and buy us a 
 sniff,” murmured Katie entreatingly, in a soft voice. 
 “Yer flush, aren’t ye? I know well them American 
 
 49 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 sailors carry a quare wad around with ’em. Let’s 
 walk along. I’m perished with the cold.” 
 
 “No,” muttered Gypo in a surly voice. “I’m goin’ 
 down to the House to book a bed for the night.” 
 
 He now remembered with pleasure that the reason 
 for his going to the police-station was the fact that 
 he wanted money for a bed. So why not go and buy 
 a bed? It was a good excuse to get rid of her. 
 
 “What are ye talkin’ about a bed for?” cried 
 Katie angrily, clutching at his arm. Then her voice 
 softened again. There was an eager glitter in her 
 eyes. “Sure it’s not thinkin’ about a bed ye are 
 when ye got money in yer pocket. Haven’t I got 
 a bed anyway, an’ if it’s not good enough for ye, sure 
 we can get a bed at Biddy’s, seein’ ye have money in 
 yer pocket.” 
 
 “I don’t want yer bed,” snarled Gypo, “an’ I’m 
 not goin’ near Biddy Burke’s. I been robbed by the 
 thievin’ old robber often enough.” 
 
 “Ye don’t want me bed, don’t ye?” cried Katie, 
 losing her temper again completely. “Ye were glad 
 enough to have it last week when I brought ye in 
 outa the rain like a drownded rat. Wha’?” 
 
 “Now I’ll give ye nothin’ for yer imperence,” 
 grumbled Gypo. “Yer too ignorant. That’s what 
 ye are.” 
 
 She moved up under his chin and held her two 
 clenched fists to his jaws. They looked white and 
 tiny against the size of his face. 
 
 50 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 “All right,” she hissed, “you watch out for yersel’, 
 Gypo Nolan.” 
 
 She turned on her heel and went off at a fierce 
 walk to the left, muttering curses as she disappeared 
 rapidly into the darkness. Gypo stared after her, 
 listening. He strained his neck in an effort to catch 
 a final mumble of sharp words that floated up to him 
 through the dark lane, as her obscure figure drifted 
 around a corner. Then he shrugged his shoulders 
 with a gasp as if he had just watched a valuable 
 possession suddenly drop over a cliff. With his 
 hands in his trousers pockets he stared at the 
 ground. 
 
 “Look here, Katie,” he called out suddenly, reach- 
 ing out his right hand impotently towards the corner 
 off the lane, around which she had swept. Then he 
 put his hand back into his pocket and gripped the 
 tight wad of Treasury notes. He wanted now to 
 give her some money. She had been good to him. 
 He began to walk up the lane slowly. There was no 
 need to hurry. He knew where to find her. He 
 must not let her go like that. 
 
 But he had not gone ten yards before he halted 
 again. He turned about and walked back quickly 
 into the main road. He had suddenly remembered 
 a terrifying thing. 
 
 Supposing somebody were to come into Biddy 
 Burke’s and say that Frank McPhillip had been 
 killed owing to information being given to the 
 
 51 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 police? They were sure to say that. They would 
 see him there with money in his pocket. They 
 would suspect. . . . 
 
 He turned to the right, past the corner of the main 
 road. He went twenty yards down the street and 
 then brought his two feet together like a soldier 
 coming to a halt on parade. He wheeled inwards, 
 still in the same mechanical manner, towards a shop 
 window. He stood at east, clasping his hands be- 
 hind his back in military manner. Somehow, it 
 gave peace to his distracted thoughts, as if he had 
 suddenly given over the responsibility of his thoughts 
 and actions to an imaginary superior officer. 
 
 Into his resting mind pleasant memories came, 
 distant pleasant memories like day-dreams on a 
 summer day, dreamt on the banks of a rock-strewn 
 river, among the flowering heather. They were 
 memories of his youth. They came to him in a 
 strange bewildered manner, as if afraid of the dark, 
 ferocious mind into which they came. Gypo stared 
 at them fiercely, with bulging lips, as if they were 
 enemies taunting him. Then gradually he softened 
 towards them. Then a mad longing seized him for 
 the protection of the environment of his youth, the 
 country-side of a Tipperary village, the little farm, 
 the big red-faced healthy peasant who was his 
 father, his long-faced kind-hearted mother, who 
 hoped that he would become a priest. 
 
 He wrinkled up his face and looked at his youth 
 
 52 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 intently. He stiffened himself, as if he were about 
 to hurl himself by sheer force back through the in- 
 tervening years, of sin and sorrow and misery, to the 
 peace and gentleness and monotony of life, in that 
 little village at the foot of the Galtees. 
 
 Various, intimate, foolish, little recollections 
 crowded into his mind. He remembered goats, 
 asses’ foals, rocks in a mountain torrent, a saying of 
 the village smith, a glance from a girl, his first drink 
 of wine stolen in the sacristy of the parish church 
 while he was serving Mass. Thousands of memories 
 came and went rapidly. They passed like soldiers 
 before a saluting-point, some gay, some sad, some 
 dim, some distinct and almost articulate as if they 
 had happened a moment ago. 
 
 Suddenly he felt a wet daub coming down each 
 cheek. He started. He was shedding tears. The 
 horror of the act made him stare wild eyed. He 
 swore aloud. He bared his teeth of their covering 
 of thick lips and ground them. His youth went 
 out like a candle that is quenched by a squall in a 
 long passage. The grinning spectre of the present 
 became real once more. He shut his mouth. He 
 sighed very deeply. Putting his hands in his pock- 
 ets again, he walked off at his habitual slouch, with 
 his head hanging slightly forward, hung on the pivot 
 of his neck like a punchball. 
 
 “I must make a plan,” he said to himself once 
 more. 
 
 53 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 Somehow he was convinced that the Revolutionary- 
 Organization already suspected him of having given 
 information concerning McPhillip. He felt that he 
 was being sought for already. So he must make a 
 plan. He must have a plausible excuse. 
 
 “If ye got a good aliby,” McPhillip used to say, 
 “the divil himself couldn’t fasten anythin’ on ye.” 
 
 But how was he going to get an alibi for himself? 
 He walked the whole length of the road three times 
 irresolutely, with his eyes fixed on the ground. He 
 was unable to think of anything. His mind kept 
 branching off into the contemplation of silly things 
 that had nothing at all to do with the question, the 
 favourite for the Grand National and whether 
 Johnny Grimes, the comedian, had drowned himself 
 in the Canal or whether he had been murdered and 
 then thrown in; the two main questions that were 
 agitating the Dublin slums just then. 
 
 At one moment he decided to go to the Dunboy 
 Lodging House, pay for a bed and go to sleep. But 
 immediately he was terrified at this suggestion. 
 They might know already that he had given in- 
 formation. Then maybe, while he was asleep, some- 
 body would be sent into his little cell with a loaded 
 stick to murder him in his sleep. Or they might 
 give him “the bum’s rush,” breaking his neck silently 
 like a rabbit’s neck. He pictured the little narrow 
 wooden cells in the lodging house, the silence of the 
 night, broken only by the dismal sound of snoring on 
 
 54 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 all sides, an indiscriminate number of unknown peo- 
 ple snoring loudly, dreaming, grumbling, snoring and 
 sleeping in all directions, while “they” approached 
 silently to murder him. 
 
 He shuddered. Perspiration stood out on his 
 forehead. Eagerly, with relief, he decided to keep 
 in the open, where he could use his hands and his 
 strength. If he were going to be murdered he would 
 be murdered with his hands gripping a dead throat. 
 
 Then at last he stood stock-still and thumped him- 
 self in the chest. 
 
 “Well, I’m damned!” he cried. “Amn’t I an aw- 
 ful fool? Why didn’t I think of it before? They’ll 
 be wonderin’ why I’m not there already. Every- 
 body in the town must ’a heard of it be now, an’ 
 me that was his pal an’ I not there to say a word to 
 his mother. They’ll surely suspect something if I 
 don’t go at once.” 
 
 Narrowing his eyes, he set out at a smart pace in 
 the direction of McPhillip’s home in Titt Street. 
 He took his hands out of his pockets and swung them 
 by his sides after the manner of a policeman. He 
 threw his head back and towered like a giant over 
 those whom he passed. 
 
 He passed them, almost over them, like a being 
 utterly remote, a unique creation. 
 
 55 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 itt Street was in turmoil like an ant- 
 
 hill that has been rooted up by the ponderous 
 
 hoof of a cow. Under the scattered street 
 lamps, between the parallel rows of two-storied, red- 
 brick houses, groups of wild-eyed men were talking. 
 The pale light of the lamps showed the drizzling rain 
 falling like steam on their rough, dirty clothes, on 
 their thick-veined necks, on their excited faces, on 
 their gnarled hands that were raised in gesticulation. 
 Their voices filled the hollow darkness of the street 
 with a hushed murmur, that rose and fell turbulently, 
 like the chattering of a torrent coming through 
 rocks. Their voices were nervous, as if they awaited 
 a storm at sea. 
 
 Old women with shawls over their heads flitted 
 about like shadows. They darted from doorway to 
 doorway, talking, making threatening gestures at 
 something remote, crossing themselves with their 
 haggard faces turned upwards to the sky. Young 
 women walked arm-in-arm, slowly, up and down the 
 street. They looked at No. 44 as they passed it, in 
 silence, with awe in their open, red lips. 
 
 No. 44 was the centre of interest. The horror 
 
 56 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 that had come to it had aroused the whole street. 
 It had aroused the whole quarter. Three streets 
 away, bar attendants stood gaping behind their 
 counters, while some man, with an excited red face 
 and a big mouth, recounted the manner of Frank 
 McPhillip’s death, with oaths and frenzied gesticu- 
 lations. Everywhere, in the streets, in the public- 
 houses, in the tenement kitchens, where old red- 
 nosed men craned forward their shrivelled necks to 
 hear the dreadful news, one word was whispered with 
 fear and hatred. 
 
 It was the word “Informer.” 
 
 Gypo heard that word as he reached the junction 
 of Titt Street and Bryan Road — a long wide road, 
 lined with little shops, the sidewalks strewn with 
 papers, little heaps of dirt in the gutters, two tram- 
 car lines rusted by the drizzling rain, groups of 
 loafers at every lamp-post, at the public-house doors 
 and on the Canal Bridge, where the road disappeared 
 abruptly over the horizon, as if it had fallen over a 
 precipice into space. He was passing Ryan’s public- 
 house that stood at the corner, half in Titt Street, 
 half in Bryan Road. The word came to him through 
 the open door of the public bar. He had slowed 
 down his pace on reaching the neighbourhood and 
 when he heard the word uttered, he brought his left 
 leg up to the right and instead of thrusting it for- 
 ward for another pace, he dropped it heavily but 
 noiselessly to the wet pavement of red and white 
 
 57 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 glazed brick diamonds, with which the front of the 
 public-house was decorated. 
 
 A squall of wind came around the corner just then 
 and buffeted him about the body. He opened his 
 moubh and nostrils. He distended his eyes. He 
 thrust forward his head and listened. 
 
 “There must ’a been information gev, ’cos how else 
 could they — ” a tall lean man was saying, as he stood 
 in the middle of the sawdust-covered floor, hold- 
 ing a pint of black frothing porter in his right 
 hand. 
 
 Then a burly carter, with a grey sack around his 
 shoulders like a cape, jostled the man who was speak- 
 ing, in an awkard attempt to cross the floor through 
 the crowd. But the man had said enough. Gypo 
 knew that they were talking about the death of Fran- 
 cis Joseph McPhillip and that they suspected that 
 information had been given. 
 
 Again the idea came into his head that he must 
 form a plan without a moment’s delay. But the in- 
 side of his head was perfectly empty, with his fore- 
 head pressing against it, hot and congested, as if he 
 had been struck a violent blow with a flat stick. 
 The idea floundered about in his head, repeating it- 
 self aimlessly, like a child calling for help in an 
 empty house. “No,” he muttered to himself, as he 
 gripped his clasp knife fiercely in his trousers 
 pocket, “I can’t make out anythin’ standin’ here in 
 the rain in front of a pub. Better go ahead.” 
 
 58 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 He hurled himself around the corner against the 
 squall into Titt Street with almost drunken violence. 
 Then he realized with terror the fate that menaced 
 him if . . . He saw the groups under the lamp- 
 posts. He saw the flitting women. He saw the 
 youths, hushed, strained, expectant. He heard the 
 rumble of human sound. The dark, sombre, mean 
 street that had been familiar to him until now, sud- 
 denly appeared strange, as if he had never seen it 
 before, as if it had suddenly become inhabited by 
 dread monsters that were intent on devouring him. 
 It appeared to him rather, that he had wandered, 
 through a foolish error of judgment, into a strange 
 and hostile foreign country where he did not know 
 the language. 
 
 He glared about him aggressively, as he walked up 
 the street. He planted his feet on the ground 
 firmly, walking with his legs wide apart, with his 
 shoulders squared, with his head thrust forward into 
 the wind like the jib boom of a ship. 
 
 As he was passing an open doorway somebody 
 cried “hist.” He halted like a challenged sentry. 
 He wheeled savagely towards the doorway and called 
 out. 
 
 “Who are cryin’ hist after?” 
 
 “It’s only me,” chirped an old lady in a clean 
 white apron, a woman he knew well. “I thought ye 
 were Jim Delaney, the coalheaver. I got to whisper 
 on account o’ me throat. I got a cold a fortnight 
 
 59 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 ago, scrubbin’ floors out at Clontarf, an’ it’s getting 
 worse instead of better. The doctor ” 
 
 But Gypo glanced angrily at her bandaged throat 
 and her dim blue eyes and passed on with a grunt 
 without listening to her further. He arrived at No. 
 44 and entered through the open door without 
 knocking. 
 
 No. 44 was the most respectable house in the 
 street. Its red-brick front was cleaner than the 
 other fronts. Its parlour window was unbroken and 
 was decorated with clean curtains of Nottingham 
 lace. Its door was freshly painted black. Its 
 owner Jack McPhillip, the bricklayer, had already 
 begun the ascent from the working class to the mid- 
 dle class. He was a Socialist and chairman of his 
 branch of the trade union, but a thoroughly respect- 
 able, conservative Socialist, utterly fanatical in his 
 hatred of the status of a working man. The whole 
 house was in keeping with his views on life. The 
 door opened on a little narrow hall, with the stair- 
 way rising midway in it. The stair-way was spot- 
 lessly clean, with brightly polished brass rods holding 
 down the well-washed linoleum carpet that struggled 
 upwards rigidly to the top of it. From the door, in 
 daytime, the backyard could be seen. In the back- 
 yard there were outhouses and stables, for Jack Mc- 
 Phillip kept a yellow she-goat, three pigs, a flock of 
 white hens and a little pony and trap, in which he 
 was in the habit of driving out into the country on 
 
 60 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 Sundays, in summer, with his wife, to visit his wife’s 
 relatives at Talmuc. To the right of the hall there 
 were two doors. The first door opened into the par- 
 lour. In the parlour there was a piano, eight chairs 
 of all sizes and sorts, innumerable photographs, “or- 
 naments,” and absolutely no room for anybody to 
 move about without touching something or other. 
 The second door opened into the kitchen, a large 
 clean room with a cement floor, an open grate and a 
 narrow bed in the corner farthest from the door. 
 The bed belonged to old Ned Lawless, the epileptic 
 relative of Mrs. McPhillip. He lived in the house 
 and received his meals and half a crown per week, in 
 exchange for his labours in looking after the back- 
 yard. He was never clean, the only dirty thing in the 
 house. On the second floor there were three rooms. 
 One was used by the old couple. The second by the 
 only daughter Mary, a girl of twenty-one who worked 
 in the city as a clerk, in the offices of Gogarty and 
 Hogan, solicitors and commissioners for oaths. The 
 third room, opening on the backyard, had been 
 closed for six months. It had been Francis’s bed- 
 room. That evening he had just entered it to go to 
 bed when the police arrived. 
 
 When Gypo entered, the house was crowded with 
 neighbours who had come in to sympathize. Some 
 were even standing in the hallway. Gypo walked 
 through the hallway and pushed his way into the 
 kitchen. Nobody noticed him. He sat down on the 
 
 61 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 floor to the left of the door, with his back to the wall 
 and his right hand grasping his left wrist in front of 
 his drawn-up knees. He sat in silence for almost a 
 minute waiting for an opportunity to speak to Mrs. 
 McPhillip. He could see her through the people in 
 the room, sitting on a chair to the right of the fire. 
 She had black wooden rosary beads wound round 
 and round her fingers. There were tears in her pale 
 blue eyes and streaming down her great white fat 
 cheeks. Her corpulent body flowed over the chair 
 on all sides like a load of hay on a cart. Her long 
 check apron hid her feet. She was looking dimly at 
 the fire, murmuring prayers silently with her lips. 
 She nodded her head now and again in answer to 
 something that was said to her. 
 
 She held Gypo’s attention like a powerful magnet. 
 Even when somebody came between his eyes and her 
 body, he stared through the intervening body as if 
 it were transparent. His eyes were centred on her 
 forehead and on her grey-white hair, that had a yel- 
 lowish sheen at the top of the skull where the part- 
 ing was. He was thinking how good she had been 
 to him. She had often fed him. More precious 
 still, she always had a word of sympathy for him, a 
 kind look, a tender, soft, smooth touch of the hand 
 on his shoulder! These were the things his strange 
 soul remembered and treasured. There were no 
 others who were soft and gentle to him like she was. 
 Often when he and Francis came into the house at 
 
 62 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 dawn, after having done some revolutionary “stunt,” 
 she used to get up, in her bare fat feet, with a skirt 
 drawn over her night-dress. She used to move 
 about silently with quivering lips, cooking breakfast. 
 It was a huge meal from her hands, an indiscrimi- 
 nate lavish Irish meal, sausages, eggs, bacon, all to- 
 gether on one plate. 
 
 And she would often press half a crown into 
 Gypo’s hand when nobody was looking, whispering: 
 “May the Virgin protect ye an’ won’t ye look after 
 Frankie an’ see that he comes to no harm.” 
 
 “She is a good woman,” thought Gypo, imperson- 
 ally, looking at her. 
 
 Then the kitchen emptied suddenly in the rear of 
 a fat short man with a pompous appearance, who 
 wore a dark raincoat and a black bowler hat. Every 
 one made way for him going out the door and there 
 were whispers. Some scowled at him angrily, but it 
 was obvious that everybody had a great respect for 
 him and envied him, even those that scowled at him. 
 He was an important Labour politician, the parlia- 
 mentary representative of the constituency that com- 
 prised Titt Street and the surrounding slums. This 
 important politician had been a bricklayer with Jack 
 McPhillip in his youth and Jack McPhillip was still 
 his main supporter. 
 
 When the politician had disappeared there were 
 only five people left in the room, other than Jack 
 McPhillip and his wile. Three men in the corner by 
 
 63 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 the window, to the left of Gypo, had their heads 
 close together, whispering with that sudden intimacy 
 that is born of the presence of a calamity, or of 
 something that has a common interest. Gypo knew 
 two of them. Two of them were members of the 
 Revolutionary Organization. 
 
 “That skunk Bartly Mulholland is here,” mut- 
 tered Gypo to himself, “an’ that’s Tommy Connor 
 with him. Mulholland is lookin’ for Frankie Mc- 
 Phillip’s job on the Intelligence Department, I be- 
 lieve; an’ I suppose that big stiff Connor is trainin’ 
 to be his butty. Huh.” 
 
 Jack McPhillip sat on the narrow bed in the other 
 corner, almost opposite Gypo. He was talking to 
 two women, who had chairs close to the bed. They 
 had pushed in to talk to McPhillip as soon as the 
 politician had left. They were nodding their heads 
 and fidgeting, with that amazing prodigality of emo- 
 tion, which women of the very lowest rung of the 
 middle class ladder display, when in the presence 
 of members of the working class who are still in 
 puris naturalibus. One was the wife of the Titt 
 Street “small grocer.” The other was the wife of 
 John Kennedy the lorry driver, who had just set up 
 in business “for himself.” 
 
 Jack McPhillip sat on the bed, with his right 
 shoulder leaning against the pillow. One foot was 
 almost on the floor. The other foot was on the bed. 
 He held his right hand, palm outwards, in front of 
 
 64 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 his face, as if he were trying to drive away some 
 imaginary idea, as he talked. 
 
 “There ye are now,” he was saying; “see what that 
 man has done for himsel’ in life. That’s what every 
 man should aim at doin’, instead of jig actin’ and 
 endin’ up by bringin’ disgrace on his class an’ on his 
 family. Johnny Daly is a member o’ Parliament 
 this day because he spent any money and time he 
 had to spare on his education. He looked after his 
 business and he did his best to educate and better 
 the condition of his fellow-men. That’s what every 
 man should do. But my son ... I put him into a 
 good job as an insurance agent an’ if he had minded 
 himself he’d be well on his way now towards a re- 
 spectable position in life for himself, but instead o’ 
 that ” 
 
 Suddenly there was an amazing interruption that 
 caused everybody to start. Gypo had spoken in a 
 deep thunderous voice that filled the whole house. 
 
 “I’m sorry for yer trouble, Mrs. McPhillip,” he 
 cried. 
 
 The sentence re-echoed in the silence that fol- 
 lowed it. It had been uttered in a shout. Gypo’s 
 voice had suddenly broken loose from his lungs into 
 a spontaneous expression of the emotion that shook 
 him into a passion of feeling, looking at Mrs. Mc- 
 Phillip. He felt suddenly that he must express that 
 feeling forcibly. Not by a whisper, or a plain re- 
 strained statement, but by a savage shout that would 
 
 65 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 brook no contradiction. The shout wandered about 
 in the room long after its sound had vanished. No- 
 body spoke. Its force was too tremendous. Every- 
 body, for some amazing reason or other, sniffed at 
 the smell of fried sausages that now permeated the 
 atmosphere of the kitchen. The smell came from 
 the pan still left on the fireplace, containing the sau- 
 sages that had been cooking for Francis Joseph Mc- 
 Phillip’s supper when the police came. He had been 
 so tired that he told his mother to bring his supper to 
 him in bed. So they still remained there, on the side 
 of the fireplace, forgotten. 
 
 Then the initial amazement wore off and every- 
 body looked at Gypo. They saw him sitting on the 
 floor, doubled up, bulky in his blue dungarees that 
 clung about his thighs like a swimming suit, with 
 his little round hat perched on his massive head, still 
 staring at Mrs. McPhillip’s face as if drawn by a 
 magnet, unconscious of the amazement he had 
 caused by his shout. 
 
 And alone of all the people in the room, Mrs. 
 McPhillip was not amazed. She had not started. 
 She had not moved her eyes. Her lips still moved in 
 prayer. Her mind was drawn by another magnet to 
 the contemplation of something utterly remote from 
 the people in that room, utterly remote from life, to 
 the contemplation of something that had its roots 
 in the mystic boundaries of eternity. 
 
 Then Jack McPhillip jumped to a sitting posture 
 66 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 on the bed. He grabbed at the old tweed cap that 
 had fallen off his grizzled grey head. 
 
 “Oh, it’s you that’s in it, is it?” he cried. “Ye 
 son o’ damnation ! ” 
 
 He glared at Gypo so ferociously that his face be- 
 gan to twitch. His face was so burned by the sun 
 that it was almost black at a distance. At close 
 quarters it looked a reddish brown. He had a glass 
 eye. The other eye looked straight across the glass 
 one, as if guarding it. He had to look away from a 
 man in order to see him. This distortion in his vi- 
 sion had always filled his wife with terror, so that 
 now she trembled whenever he looked at her. It 
 was so uncanny, his looking at space like that. His 
 body was short and slight. He was fifty years old. 
 
 He jumped off the bed and stood on the floor in his 
 grey socks, his blue waistcoat unbuttoned, the little 
 white patch of linen on the abdomen of his grey flan- 
 nel shirt puffing in and out with his heavy breathing, 
 his throat contorting, his hands gripping and ungrip- 
 ping restlessly. 
 
 Mrs. McPhillip had awakened from her reverie 
 as soon as her husband spoke. She had started up 
 and gripped her breast over her heart with a dumb 
 exclamation. Then she rubbed her two eyes hur- 
 riedly and looked at him. As soon as she saw him, 
 her eyes grew dim again and her body subsided into 
 the chair from which it had risen slightly. 
 
 “Jack,” she cried in an agonized voice, “Jack! 
 
 67 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 Jack, leave him alone. He was Frankie’s friend. 
 He was a friend of me dead boy’s. Let him alone. 
 What’s done is done.” 
 
 “Be damned to that for a story,” cried Jack. His 
 voice was weak and jerky, just like the voice of his 
 dead son. “A friend d’ye call him? What kind of 
 friend d’ye call that waster that never did a day’s 
 work in his life? That ex-policeman! He was 
 even driven outa the police. That’s fine company 
 for yer son, Maggie. It’s the likes o’ him that’s 
 brought Frankie to his death an’ destruction. Them 
 an’ their revolutions. It’s in Russia they should be 
 where they could act the cannibal as much as they 
 like, instead of leadin’ good honest Irishmen astray. 
 Why don’t they get out of here and go back to Eng- 
 land where they came from, with their rotten gold, 
 gev to them be the Orangemen to turn Ireland into 
 an uproar, so that the Freemasons could step in 
 again and capture it. Ah-h-h-h, I’d like to get me 
 fingers on yer throat, ye ” 
 
 He was rushing across the floor at Gypo, but the 
 three men had jumped up and caught him. They 
 held him back. Gypo stared at him, as if in perplex- 
 ity, without moving. But the muscles of his shoul- 
 ders stiffened, almost unconsciously. His eyes wan- 
 dered slowly from the fuming husband to the sobbing 
 wife, who had again turned to the fire. 
 
 Then the people from the parlour rushed into the 
 kitchen, attracted by the shouting. They were 
 
 68 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 headed by Mary McPhillip, the daughter of the 
 house. She was a handsome young woman, with a 
 full figure, plump, with red cheeks, a firm jaw, au- 
 burn hair cropped in the current fashion, blue eyes 
 that had a “sensible” look in them and a rather large 
 mouth that was opened wide by her excitement. 
 Every bit of her except her mouth belonged to an 
 average Irishwoman of the middle class. The 
 mouth was a product of the slums. Its size and 
 its propensity for disclosing the state of the mind 
 by exaggerated movement, which is the hallmark of 
 the slum girl, belied the neat elegance of the rest 
 of the body and of all the clothes. She was still 
 dressed just as she had arrived from the office, in 
 a smart navy-blue costume which she had made her- 
 self. The skirt was rather short, in the current 
 fashion, and she stood with her feet fairly wide 
 apart, in the arrogant posture of a woman of good 
 family. Her well-shaped calves were covered with 
 thin black silk stockings. But she had her hands 
 on her hips, unconsciously, as she stood in front of 
 the indiscriminate crowd that had followed her in 
 from the parlour, to find out what had caused the 
 disturbance in the kitchen. 
 
 “What’s the row about, father?” she said. 
 
 The accent was good, but a little too good. It was 
 too refined. The pronunciation of the words was too 
 correct. It had not that careless certainty of the 
 born lady. She spoke in an angry tenor voice, in 
 
 69 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 the rich soft tones of the Midlands, her mother’s 
 birthplace. Her voice had the softness of butter, 
 that voice which patriotic Irishmen always associate 
 with kindness and unassailable innocence and vir- 
 tue, but which is really the natural mask of a stern, 
 resolute character. 
 
 “Aren’t we bad enough,” she continued, “without 
 your acting like a drunken tramp? Shut up and 
 don’t disgrace yourself.” She stamped her right 
 foot and cried again: “Shut up.” 
 
 The father relaxed immediately. He began to 
 tremble slightly. He was very much afraid of his 
 daughter. In spite of the power of vituperation 
 which he undoubtedly possessed, he had been afraid 
 of both his children. When Francis had become dis- 
 contented and joined the Revolutionary Organiza- 
 tion, the father had poured out threats and abuse for 
 hours, almost every night, for the edification of his 
 wife, but when the son came in he said nothing. He 
 was a weak, nervous character, slightly hysterical, 
 capable of committing any act on the spur of the 
 moment, but incapable of pursuing a logical course 
 of action resolutely. But his children were resolute. 
 The son was resolute in his hatred of existing con- 
 ditions of society. He was a resolute, determined 
 revolutionary, with his father’s energy. The daugh- 
 ter was resolute in her determination to get out of 
 the slums. 
 
 The father slipped out of the hands of the men 
 70 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 that were holding him and moved backwards until 
 he reached the bed. He sat down on it without 
 looking at it. He wiped his forehead with his 
 sleeve although it was perfectly dry. But it had 
 a prickly feeling in it, as if scores of needles had 
 thrust themselves out from his brain through it. 
 He always felt like that when he got an attack of 
 nerves, especially since his son became a revolution- 
 ary, and it became known that his activities were be- 
 ing watched at police headquarters. 
 
 He looked at his daughter, at first in a cowed 
 fashion. He was afraid of her, because she had be- 
 come what he had urged her from her infancy to 
 become, “a lady.” He was afraid of her because she 
 was so well educated, because she had such “swell” 
 friends, because she dressed so well, because she 
 washed herself several times a day, because she 
 spoke properly. But then he became irritated with 
 all this and remembered that he himself was a 
 Socialist, the chairman of his branch of the trade 
 union, a political leader in the district, that all men 
 were free and equal and ... all the pet phrases 
 with which respectable Socialists delude themselves 
 into the belief that they are philosophers and men 
 of principle. He spoke with a ring of indignation 
 and of warning in his voice. 
 
 “Am I to be called a tramp by me own daughter 
 in me own house,” he cried, “when I tell this ruf- 
 fian his true character? Yes, an’ every other 
 
 71 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 ruffian that’s the curse o’ the workin’-class move- 
 ment with their talk of violence an’ murder an’ revo- 
 lution. All me life I have stood straight for the 
 cause of me fellow-workers. I was one o’ the first 
 men to stand up for Connolly an’ the cause o’ So- 
 cialism, but I always said that the greatest enemies 
 o’ the workin’ class were those o’ their own kind 
 that advocated violence. I . . .” 
 
 “I told you to shut up,” said Mary in a calm, low 
 voice, as she walked over to the bed, with her hands 
 still on her hips. “It’s just like you,” she almost 
 hissed, putting her doubled fists into the little pock- 
 ets of her jacket. “It’s just like you to go back on 
 your own son.” 
 
 She did not know why she was saying this, but 
 she felt some force driving her on in opposition to 
 her father, in defence of her dead brother. Perhaps 
 it was the audience she had behind her. Because, 
 strangely enough, she herself hated Frankie for be- 
 longing to the Revolutionary Organization, since she 
 got a position two years before as clerk in the offices 
 of Gogarty and Hogan. Before that she had been a 
 revolutionary herself, but not a member of any or- 
 ganization. She used to attend meetings and cheer 
 and get into arguments with irritated old gentlemen, 
 etc. But during the past two years her outlook on 
 life had undergone a subtle change, gradual but def- 
 inite. At first she began to get “disillusioned,” as 
 she used to tell Francis, with the blase air of a young 
 
 72 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 girl of nineteen. Then she used to lecture him on 
 the desirability of keeping better company. This 
 was at the time when she made the acquaintance of 
 Joseph Augustine Short, a young gentleman who was 
 serving his apprenticeship with Gogarty and Hogan 
 and wore plus fours and left Harcourt Street Station 
 every Sunday morning, to play golf down the coun- 
 try somewhere. Finally, she became opposed vio- 
 lently “to the whole theory of revolution,” as being 
 degenerating and “subversive of all moral ideas.” 
 She became religious and got the idea into her head 
 that she could convert Commandant Dan Gallagher, 
 the leader of the revolutionary movement. All this 
 later development had been quite recent, however, 
 and had not matured fully in her character. It was 
 yet merely plastic. It had not become a fixed habit 
 of thought, surrounded by deep and bitter prejudices, 
 that form themselves into “firm convictions.” 
 
 For that reason she had responded suddenly to 
 that strange exaltation, born of hatred for the law, 
 which is traditional and hereditary in the slums. 
 The one glorious romance of the slums is the feeling 
 of intense hatred against the oppressive hand of the 
 law, which sometimes stretches out to strike some 
 one, during a street row, during an industrial dis- 
 pute, during a Nationalist uprising. It is a clarion 
 call to all the spiritual emotion that finds no other 
 means of expression in that sordid environment, 
 neither in art, nor in industry, nor in commercial 
 
 73 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 undertakings, nor in the more reasonable searchings 
 for a religious understanding of the universal crea- 
 tion. 
 
 “I stand by what Frankie has done,” she cried, 
 turning to the people. “I don’t agree with him in 
 politics, but every man has a right to his opinions 
 and every man should fight for his rights according 
 to . . .” she got confused and stammered a little. 
 Then she raised her hand suddenly with an enthu- 
 siastic gesture and cried in a loud voice: “He was 
 my brother anyway and I’m going to stand up for 
 him.” 
 
 Then she suddenly put her handkerchief to her 
 nose and blew it fiercely. There was a loud murmur 
 of applause. The father made a half-hearted at- 
 tempt to say something, but he subsided. Mrs. Mc- 
 Phillip was heard to mumble something, but nobody 
 paid any attention to her. Nobody noticed her ex- 
 cept Gypo, who still sat on the floor staring at her, 
 fondling the memory of her past goodness to him, 
 like a sumptuous luxury that he must soon relin- 
 quish. Although he had been the cause of all the 
 excitement, he was now forgotten in the still greater 
 excitement, caused by the argument between the 
 father and daughter of the dead revolutionary. 
 
 Then Mary turned to Gypo and addressed him. 
 
 “If you were a friend of my brother,” she said, 
 “you are quite welcome here. Come into the par- 
 lour a minute. I want to talk to you.” 
 
 74 
 
I 
 
 THE INFORMER 
 
 Gypo started and looked at Mary with his tufted 
 eyebrows twitching ominously like snouts. But he 
 said nothing. She was embarrassed by the uncouth 
 stare and flushed slightly. She coughed in her 
 throat and put her fingers to her lips. She began 
 to talk rapidly, as if apologizing to the uncouth giant 
 for having had the temerity to address him a request. 
 
 “It’s because Frankie told us that he met you in 
 the Dunboy Lodging House before he came here. 
 You are the only one he met in town before he came 
 in here, so I thought maybe that . . . you might be 
 able . . .” 
 
 She stopped in confusion, amazed at the startling 
 change that had come over Gypo. He had become 
 seized by some violent emotion as she spoke until 
 his face contorted as if he were gazing at some 
 awe-inspiring horror. Then she stopped. His face 
 stood still gaping at her. Then for some reason or 
 other he jumped to his feet, shouting as he did so 
 at the top of his voice: “All right.” 
 
 As he bent his head and the upper part of his body 
 to jump to his feet, his right trousers pocket was 
 turned mouth to the ground. Four silver coins fell 
 to the cement floor with a rattling noise. These 
 coins were the change he had received in the public- 
 house. 
 
 He was petrified. Every muscle in his body stiff- 
 ened. His head stood still. His jaws set like the 
 teeth of a bear trap that has been sprung fruitlessly. 
 
 75 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 Behind his eyes he felt the delicious cold and con- 
 gealed sensation of being about to fight a desperate 
 and bloody battle. For he was certain that the four 
 white silver coins lying nakedly, ever so nakedly, on 
 the floor, were as indicative of his betrayal of his 
 comrade as a confession uttered aloud in a crowded 
 market-place. 
 
 Somebody stooped to pick up the coins. 
 
 “Let them alone,” shouted Gypo. 
 
 He swooped down to the floor and his right palm, 
 spread flat, covered the coins with the dull sound of 
 a heavy dead fish falling on an iron deck. 
 
 “I only wanted to hand them to ye, Gypo,” panted 
 the weazened flour-mill worker who had stooped to 
 pick them up. He had been knocked to his knees 
 by Gypo’s swoop. 
 
 Gypo took no notice of the explanation. As he 
 collected the coins in his left fist and rose again, 
 leaning on his right hand, he was listening, waiting 
 for the attack. 
 
 But there was no attack. Everybody was 
 amazed, mesmerized by the curious movements of 
 the irritated giant. They stared with open mouths, 
 all except Bartly Mulholland and Tommy Connor, 
 who stood in the background, looking curiously at 
 one another with narrowed eyes. Darting his eyes 
 around the room Gypo caught sight of the two of 
 them. Spurred by some sudden impulse he held up 
 his right hand over his head, he stamped his right 
 
 76 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 foot, he threw back his head and shouted, looking 
 straight upwards: 
 
 “I swear before Almighty God that I warned him 
 to keep away from the house.” 
 
 There was a dead silence for three seconds. Then 
 a perceptible shudder ran through the room. Every- 
 body remembered with horror that there was a sus- 
 picion abroad, a suspicion that an informer had be- 
 trayed Francis Joseph McPhillip. Informer! A 
 horror to be understood fully only by an Irish mind. 
 For an awful moment each one present suspected 
 himself or herself. Then each looked at his or her 
 neighbour. Gradually rage took the place of fear. 
 But it had no direction. Even the most daring 
 gasped when their minds suggested, that possibly the 
 great fierce giant might have had . . . Impossible! 
 
 “There’s no man suspects ye, Gypo. Ye needn’t 
 be afraid of that,” cried Tommy Connor, the huge 
 red-faced docker with immense jaws like a bullock, 
 who had been whispering to Bartly Mulholland. 
 
 He had spoken spontaneously with a queer note 
 of anger in his voice. 
 
 “Nobody suspects ye. Good God, man! . . .” 
 
 There was a chorus of agreement. Everybody 
 was eager to assent to the statement that Connor 
 had made. Somebody put his hand on Gypo’s 
 shoulder and began to say: “Sure it’s well known 
 that . . .” 
 
 But Gypo elbowed the man away fiercely and set 
 77 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 out hurriedly across the floor towards Mrs. McPhil- 
 lip. He elbowed the people out of his way without 
 looking at them. He stood in front of Mrs. McPhil- 
 lip. He stared at her impassively for a few mo- 
 ments. Then he put his hand slowly to his head 
 and took off his hat. He felt moved by an incon- 
 trollable impulse. All his actions had completed 
 themselves before his mind was aware of them. His 
 mind was struggling along aimlessly in pursuit of 
 his actions, impotently deprecating them and whis- 
 pering warnings. But it was powerless. 
 
 This impulse that had possession of him now was 
 of the same origin as the one that controlled him 
 when he was looking into the shop window think- 
 ing of his youth. 
 
 He was beyond himself. His lips quivered. 
 His throat got stuffed. He swallowed his breath 
 with an articulate sound, resembling a cry of pain. 
 He held out his left hand towards Mrs. McPhillip. 
 He opened the hand slowly. The four white silver 
 coins lay there. 
 
 “Take it,” he muttered. “Ye were good to me an’ 
 I’m sorry for yer trouble.” 
 
 He felt a mad desire to pull out the roll of notes 
 and give them to her also, but the very thought of 
 such a mad action made him shiver. Instead he 
 dropped the four coins into Mrs. McPhillip’s lap. 
 
 Mrs. McPhillip glanced at the money and then 
 burst into loud sobs. The sound maddened Gypo. 
 
 78 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 He turned about and rushed towards the door. He 
 stubbed his foot against the door-jamb and hurtled 
 into the hall. He rushed along the passage, cursing 
 and striking furiously at everybody that came in his 
 way. He stood outside the street door and breathed 
 deeply. 
 
 Two men rushed out after him. They were Bartly 
 MuIKoIland and Tommy Connor, the docker. 
 
 79 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 u ypo!” 
 
 vl T T ^yP° had taken three steps down the street 
 when his name came to him through the 
 darkness, uttered in that long-drawn-out whisper 
 which is the customary intonation among revolution- 
 aries. He contracted his back suddenly like an ass 
 that has been struck with violence. Then he halted. 
 He did not turn about or reply. He waited. He 
 listened with a beating heart to the slow footsteps 
 that came up to him from behind. One, two, three, 
 four . . . they stopped. Gypo looked to his left. 
 Bartly Mulholland was standing there. 
 
 The two of them stood in front of a window 
 through which lamp-light was streaming, across 
 Gypo’s chest on to Mulholland’s face. Mulholland’s 
 yellow face looked almost black in the lamp-light. 
 It was furrowed vertically from the temples to the 
 jaws, with deep black furrows. The mouth was large 
 and open, fixed in a perpetual grin that had absolutely 
 no merriment in it, that fixed grin of sardonic con- 
 tempt that is nearly always seen on the faces of men 
 who make a business of concealing their thoughts. 
 The nose was long and narrow. The ears were large. 
 
 80 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 The forehead was furrowed horizontally. The skin 
 on the forehead was very white in contrast to the 
 dark skin on the cheeks. The furrows on the fore- 
 head were very shallow and narrow, like thin lines 
 drawn with a sharp pencil. In fact, the whole ap- 
 pearance of the face was that of an artificial face, 
 such as that produced in the dressing-room of an 
 actor by means of paints, etc. This suggestion was 
 strengthened by the appearance of the hair that 
 straggled in loose wisps from beneath the shovel- 
 shaped peak of the grey tweed cap. The hair ap- 
 peared to be a dirty brown wig, much the worse for 
 wear. But neither the hair nor any portion of the 
 face was artificial. Everything had come from the 
 hand of Nature, which seemed, by some peculiar 
 whimsey, to have cast this individual for the role of 
 a conspirator. The face was the face of a clown to 
 hide the conspirator’s eyes, except from a very close 
 scrutiny. The eyes were the colour of sea water that 
 is dirty with grey sand. These eyes are sometimes 
 described as watery blue, but it is a totally wrong 
 description. There was an indescribable coldness 
 and depth in them which it is beyond the power of 
 any colour to describe. They stared without a move- 
 ment of the pupils or of the lashes at Gypo’s face, 
 expressing no emotion whatever. They were not 
 doors of the soul like ordinary eyes, but spy holes. 
 They stared glassily like a cat’s eyes. 
 
 This curious creature was dressed like a workman, 
 81 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 in heavy hobnailed boots, brown corduroy trousers 
 with strings tied around the legs below the knees, a 
 black handkerchief tied in sailor fashion around his 
 neck and an old grey tweed coat that almost reached 
 half-way down his thighs. His hands were stuck 
 deep down in the pockets of his coat. 
 
 “Where’s yer hurry takin’ ye, Gypo?” he drawled 
 in a low lazy voice, as if he were half-drunk or lying 
 on his back in a sunny place on a hot summer’s day. 
 
 “Who’s in a hurry?” growled Gypo. “How d’ye 
 make out I’m in a hurry?” 
 
 “Oh, nothin’ atall. Don’t get yer rag out, Gypo. 
 Ye might talk to the people. We never see ye atall 
 now since ye left the Organization. Are ye 
 workin’?” 
 
 “No,” snapped Gypo angrily. The short ejacula- 
 tion coming from his thick lips sounded like a solitary 
 gunshot coming a long way over still air. “I ain’t 
 workin’ an’ all o’ you fellahs, that were supposed to 
 be comrades o’ mine, take damn good care to keep 
 out o’ the way, for fear I might ask ye for the price 
 of a feed or a flop. Yer a quare lot o’ Communists.” 
 
 Mulholland drew himself in at the middle, emitted 
 his breath, shrugged his shoulders, thrust out his 
 right foot and leaned his weight backwards heavily 
 on his left foot. Then he turned his head up side- 
 ways to let the drizzling rain beat on the back of his 
 neck instead of on his face. The grin left his mouth 
 and for a moment he appeared to have become angry. 
 
 82 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 “Ye don’t seem to be in any need o’ money to- 
 night, Gypo,” he breathed ever so gently. 
 
 Then just as suddenly he broke into an almost 
 fawning and ingratiating smile. He continued in 
 his ordinary lazy voice: 
 
 “Don’t be tryin’ to make out yer broke, after me 
 seein’ the money that fell outa yer pocket in the 
 kitchen beyond just now. Aren’t ye goin’ to stand us 
 a wet?” 
 
 Gypo had begun to shiver. He shivered with 
 minute movements, just as a massive tree shivers, 
 when the forest earth is shaken beneath it by a heavy 
 concussion. Then suddenly he recovered himself. 
 Without pausing to think, he shot out both hands 
 simultaneously like piston-rods. Mulholland gasped 
 as the two huge hands closed about his throat. He 
 struck out helplessly with his own hands at Gypo’s 
 body. His blows were as ineffective as the flapping 
 of a linnet’s wings against its cage. Gypo’s face was 
 lit with a demoniac pleasure as he raised Mulhol- 
 land’s body from the ground, clutching it by the 
 throat with his two hands. He raised it up like a 
 book which he wanted to read, until Mulholland’s 
 eyes were level with his own. Then they both looked 
 at one another. 
 
 Mulholland’s eyes were still cold and glassy, im- 
 penetrable and absolutely without emotion. Gypo’s 
 eyes were ferocious and eager, full of a mad savage 
 joy. His mouth had shut tight and the skin had run 
 
 83 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 taut over the glossy humps on his face, so that his 
 face looked like tanned pigskin. Mulholland’s 
 tongue was hanging out. 
 
 Then Gypo groaned and prepared to crush out 
 Mulholland’s life between his thick fingers, when he 
 was disturbed by a shout from behind. He dropped 
 Mulholland to the street like a bag and whirled 
 about. Tommy Connor had rushed up from the 
 doorway of No. 44 where he had been waiting. He 
 was standing now with his mouth wide open in 
 astonishment and terror. 
 
 “What’s wrong, boys?” he cried. “In the name o’ 
 God what are ye up to?” 
 
 “He suspects me,” cried Gypo, “and . . .” Then 
 he sank into silence, unable to say any more. His 
 unsatisfied fury choked him. 
 
 “Suspects ye of what?” cried Connor. “What 
 d’ye say he suspects ye of?” 
 
 “I didn’t suspect him of anythin’ atall,” cried 
 Mulholland, rising to his feet slowly. His face was 
 contorting with pain. “I only asked him to ” 
 
 “Yer a liar, ye did,” bellowed Gypo. “Ye sus- 
 pect me, an’ well I know ye, Bartly Mulholland. 
 D’ye think I don’t know ye an’ all about ye? Ye 
 got a grudge agin me an’ Frankie McPhillip this 
 long time. Don’t I know yer Intelligence Officer for 
 No. 3 Area an’ that yer nosin’ around now ” 
 
 “Shut up or I’ll plug ye where ye stand,” hissed 
 84 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 Connor, ramming the muzzle of his revolver into 
 Gypo’s side. “Don’t ye know there are people 
 listenin’? D’ye want to let the dogs o’ the street 
 know the secrets o’ the Organization that ye swore 
 on yer oath to kape?” He panted and continued in 
 a lower voice still: “Are ye mad or are ye lookin’ 
 to get plugged?” 
 
 Gypo’s mouth remained open in the act of begin- 
 ning a word, but he did not utter the word. He half- 
 turned his body in order to look into Connor’s face. 
 He saw it, big, angry, menacing, with the nostrils 
 distended, so that the insides, blackened with coal, 
 were visible. The face was within four inches of 
 Gypo’s face. Connor’s revolver muzzle was pressing 
 into Gypo’s right armpit. Gypo feared neither the 
 face nor the revolver. He stared with wrinkled fore- 
 head at Connor, knowing that he could crush him 
 and Mulholland, both together, crush them to death, 
 to a shapeless pulp, by clasping them in his arms. 
 
 But they were not merely two men, two human 
 beings. They were something more than that. 
 They represented the Revolutionary Organization. 
 They were merely cogs in the wheel of that Organiza- 
 tion. That was what he feared, what rendered him 
 powerless. He feared that mysterious, intangible 
 thing, that was all brain and no body. An intelli- 
 gence without a body. A thing that was full of 
 plans, implacable, reaching out everywhere invisibly, 
 
 85 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 with invisible tentacles like a supernatural monster. 
 A thing that was like a religion, mysterious, occult, 
 devilish. 
 
 Frankie McPhillip had once told him that they 
 tracked a man to the Argentine Republic, somewhere 
 the other side of the world. Shot him dead in a 
 lodging-house at night too, without saying a word. 
 What d’ye think of that? 
 
 “All right,” he said at last, “put away yer gat, 
 Tommy. I’ll stay quiet.” 
 
 A few people had gathered on the far side of the 
 street and were looking on curiously. An immense 
 crowd would have already gathered on ordinary 
 occasions, but there was tension and anxiety in the 
 district that night. Shooting might begin at any 
 minute. It was always so. One death brings an- 
 other in its train. Each man thought this in his own 
 mind, although nobody breathed a word. It was a 
 kind of silent terror. 
 
 “Come on, boys,” said Connor, “let’s get away 
 from here. We’re gatherin’ a crowd.” 
 
 “Come on down to Ryan’s,” whispered Mulholland 
 to Gypo, in his usual lazy, insinuating voice, as if 
 nothing had happened, “Commandant Gallagher is 
 down there. He wants to see ye.” 
 
 “What does he want with me?” growled Gypo. 
 “I’m not a member o’ the Organization any more. 
 He’s got nothin’ to do with me. I’m not goin’.” 
 
 “Come on, man,” whispered Connor, “don’t stand 
 86 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 here chawin’. He’s not goin’ t’ate ye. Come on. 
 Is it afraid o’ the Commandant ye are? Why so?” 
 
 “I’m not afraid of any man that was ever pupped,” 
 growled Gypo. “Come on.” 
 
 The three men walked off abreast, in step like 
 soldiers, their feet falling loudly on to the wet pave- 
 ment, heels first. At the corner the footfalls be- 
 came confused. Gypo spat into the street. Mul- 
 holland sneezed. They entered the public-house by 
 a little narrow side door that had a bright brass knob 
 on it. They went along a narrow passage, through 
 a stained-glass swing door, into a brightly lit oblong 
 room. 
 
 A man was sitting by a little gas fire on a high 
 three legged stool facing the door. When Gypo saw 
 the man he stopped dead. 
 
 The man was Commandant Dan Gallagher. 
 
 87 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 D uring the previous autumn a terrific 
 sensation had been caused all over Ireland 
 
 by the farm-labourers’ strike in the M 
 
 district. The sensation was brought to a crisis by 
 the murder of the Farmers’ Union Secretary. For 
 the first time it was discovered that the Revolutionary 
 Organization had spread its influence among the 
 farm-labourers and over the whole country. Some- 
 thing had been discovered. A Government secret 
 organization had overlapped the Communist organi- 
 zation and there was a little effervescence, which 
 was immediately suppressed by the Government. 
 Very little leaked out publicly. The newspapers 
 were forbidden to talk about it. The Conservative 
 organs in Dublin had timid editorials demanding that 
 the Government should take the people into its 
 confidence. What really was the extent of this 
 “conspiracy against the national safety?” 
 
 Then immediately Commandant Dan Gallagher 
 became a public figure and a general topic of con- 
 versation. He came out of obscurity in a night as it 
 were. People suddenly discovered that he was a 
 power in the country. He was photographed and 
 interviewed and his photographs appeared in all the 
 
 88 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 newspapers both in this country and in England and 
 in America. He promptly denounced the murder as 
 a “foul crime against the honour of the working 
 class and the whole revolutionary movement.” He 
 began to be feared intensely in official quarters as a 
 “slippery customer.” This phrase was used at a 
 Government Cabinet meeting. 
 
 Just about that time, the leading organ of the 
 English aristocracy had a two-column leading article 
 on the subject of Commandant Dan Gallagher. In 
 the course of the article a short survey of Gallagher’s 
 life was given sarcastically. The following is an ex- 
 tract from the article: 
 
 . . This flower of Irish manhood grew on an obscure 
 dunghill, in the daily practice of all these virtues, which 
 are indigenous to the Irish soil, if one is to believe the 
 flowery utterances of the politicians on St. Patrick’s Day. 
 His father was a small peasant farmer in Kilkenny. 
 Having assisted very probably in the gentle assassina- 
 tion of a few of his landlord’s agents in the past, rever- 
 ently decided to devote the activities of his promising 
 son to the service of his God. But Daniel would have 
 none of it. He was meant for other fields of conquest. 
 He succeeded in making himself famous in the ecclesiasti- 
 cal seminary in which he was being prepared for the 
 priesthood, by smashing the skull of one of the Roman 
 priests during a dispute on the playground. The instru- 
 ment used in this display of boyish gaiety was the favour- 
 ite Irish weapon, a huriing stick. 
 
 89 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 “The young Fionn McCumhaill was expelled and fled 
 the country. He drifted around for eight years without 
 a trace of his whereabouts. Very possibly he spent the 
 time in the United States. We can well imagine that he 
 was favourably received among those organizations in 
 the United States which are governed by Irishmen intent 
 on the destruction of the British Empire by conspiracy, 
 murder, slander, and all the other delectable schemes 
 that come to life so readily in the Gaelic brain. We 
 can imagine him perfecting himself in the arts of gun- 
 manship, deceit and those obscure forms of libidinous 
 vice which are said to be practiced by this morose type 
 of revolutionary in order to dull his sensibilities into 
 an apathy which the consciousness of even the most 
 horrible enormities cannot penetrate. . . . 
 
 “At any rate he has returned to his beloved motherland 
 endowed liberally with those qualities which make him 
 dear to the hearts of all Irishmen of murderous in- 
 clinations. These latter unfortunately form as yet a 
 considerable portion of the population of Ireland. 
 Mr. Gallagher has a powerful and enthusiastic follow- 
 ing. 
 
 “His brand of Communism is of the type that appeals 
 most to the Irish nature. It is a mixture of Roman 
 Catholicism, Nationalist Republicanism and Bolshevism. 
 Its chief rallying cries are: ‘Loot and Murder.’” . . . 
 
 The following is an extract from an article which 
 appeared a little while later in the columns of the 
 official organ of the American Revolutionary Organ- 
 ization: 
 
 90 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 “When the glorious history of the struggle for prole- 
 tarian liberation in Ireland comes to be written, the 
 name of Comrade Dan Gallagher will stampede from 
 cover to cover in one uninterrupted blaze of glory. . . . 
 No other living man has given nobler service to the world 
 revolution than this sturdy fighter, who rules the workers 
 of Dublin with greater power than is wielded by the 
 Irish bourgeoisie, who are still nominally in the saddle. 
 The collapse of the farm-workers’ strike need not dis- 
 hearten those comrades who expected great things from 
 the hoisting of the red flag at M last October. Com- 
 
 rade Gallagher has not seen fit as yet to call the Irish 
 bourgeois bluff. When the time arrives. . . 
 
 In November a representative of the International 
 Executive of the Revolutionary Organization was 
 sent over from the Continent to make a special report 
 on the situation in Ireland. The following is an ex- 
 tract from a secret report drawn up by him, after 
 spending three months in Ireland secretly touring the 
 country : 
 
 “. . . For the moment it would be a tactical blunder 
 to expel Comrade Gallagher from the International. At 
 the same time there can be no doubt that the Irish 
 Section has deviated entirely from the principles of 
 revolutionary Communism as laid down in the laws of 
 the International. Comrade Gallagher rules the national 
 Organization purely and simply as a dictator. There 
 is a semblance of an Executive Committee but only in 
 name. The tactics are guided by whatever whim is 
 
 91 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 uppermost in Comrade Gallagher’s mind at the moment. 
 Contrary to the orders issued from Head-quarters, the 
 Organization is still purely military and has made hardly 
 any attempt to come into the open as a legal political 
 party. This is perhaps not entirely due to Comrade 
 Gallagher’s fault. There are local causes, arising out 
 of the recent struggle for national independence, which 
 has left the working class in the grip of a romantic love 
 of conspiracy, a strong religious and bourgeois-nationalist 
 outlook on life and a hatred of constitutional methods. 
 This makes it difficult for the moment to check Comrade 
 Gallagher’s hold , . .” 
 
 92 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 G allagher’s eyes had opened wide when 
 the three men came into the room. Then 
 they narrowed until they became thin slits 
 under their long black lashes. He nodded to Mul- 
 holland and Connor. Then he stared at Gypo. 
 
 Gypo returned the stare. The two men, unlike in 
 their features and bodies, were exactly alike in the 
 impassivity of their stare. Gypo’s face was like a 
 solid and bulging granite rock, impregnable but 
 lacking that intelligence that is required by strength 
 in order to be able to conquer men. Gallagher’s face 
 was less powerful physically, but it was brimful of 
 intelligence. The forehead was high and it seemed 
 to surround the face. The eyes were large and wide 
 apart. The nose was long and straight. The 
 mouth was thin-lipped. The jaws were firm but 
 slender and refined like a woman’s jaws. The whole 
 face had absolutely no colour, but there was a con- 
 stant movement in the cheeks, as if tiny streams 
 were coursing irregularly beneath the smooth glossy 
 skin. The hair was coal-black and cut close. The 
 ears were large. The neck opened out gradually 
 
 93 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 from the base of the shoulders on either side, like a 
 hill disappearing into a plain. 
 
 Then he jumped off his high stool and stood with 
 his legs wide apart in front of Gypo. He was five 
 feet eleven inches and a half in height, but Gypo 
 towered over him with his extra two inches. Gal- 
 lagher wore a loose brown raincoat, from his throat 
 almost to his ankles, that made his well-built frame 
 look larger and stouter. Yet Gypo, standing bare 
 in his dungarees that were now almost sodden with 
 rain, looked immense compared to him. Gallagher 
 held his hands in his raincoat pockets thrust in front 
 of his body, as if he were pointing pistols at Gypo. 
 Gypo held his hands loosely by his sides, two vast 
 red hands hanging limply from whitish round wrists. 
 Gallagher wore a broad-brimmed black velour hat of 
 a fashionable make. Gypo’s tattered little round 
 hat was still perched on his skull, like a tiny school 
 cap on an overgrown youngster. 
 
 They looked at one another, the one, handsome, 
 well dressed, confident and indifferent; the other 
 crude, ragged, amazed, anxious. 
 
 “Well, Gypo,” drawled Gallagher, in the irritating, 
 contemptuous tone that he affected. “Ye don’t 
 seem glad to see me.” 
 
 “Can’t say that I am,” replied Gypo curtly, almost 
 without moving his lips. “I don’t see no reason to 
 be glad to see ye, Commandant Gallagher. Ye were 
 never a friend o’ mine, an’ I ain’t in the habit o’ 
 
 94 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 crawlin’ on me belly to anybody that don’t like me. 
 I’m not one o’ yer pet lambs any more, so ye needn’t 
 do any bleatin’ as far as I’m concerned. One man is 
 as good as another in this rotten ould world. I’m 
 usin’ yer own words, amn’t I?” 
 
 Gallagher laughed out loud, a merry laugh that 
 showed his white teeth. He shrugged his shoulders 
 and took a turn around the room. He took a packet 
 of cigarettes from his pocket as he walked and 
 selected one. He kept laughing until he paused to 
 light the cigarette over near the stained-glass window. 
 
 “Yer a queer fish, Gypo,” he said, again laughing, 
 as he paused to throw the used match into a spittoon. 
 
 Then he cast a glance all round the room and came 
 back again to Gypo. Mulholland and Connor 
 watched him all the time with that loving interest 
 with which a crowd watches the movements of a 
 champion boxer who is walking around the ring in 
 his dressing-gown, preparatory to a big fight. They 
 smiled when Gallagher laughed. They stopped 
 smiling when he stopped laughing. 
 
 Gypo, on the other hand, watched Gallagher’s 
 movements angrily. He felt a desire to pounce on 
 him and crush him to death before he could do any 
 harm. 
 
 Then Gallagher came up to him and caught him 
 by the right shoulder in a friendly and confidential 
 manner. 
 
 “Listen Gypo,” he said. “You’ve got a grudge 
 95 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 against me no doubt for getting you expelled from 
 the Organization, but you have nobody to blame but 
 yourself. I sent ye down, on the orders of the 
 Executive Committee, you and Frank McPhillip, 
 to look after the defence work of the strikers. What 
 orders did I give the two of you? Can you remem- 
 ber? Well, I’ll remind you. To keep off the 
 
 BOOZE AND NOT TO USE THE LEAD UNLESS YOU WERE 
 
 attacked. But what did you do? The very first 
 thing, the two of you got hold of two women. That, 
 of course, must have been Frankie’s work because I 
 don’t suppose you were ever a great magnet among 
 the women. Women were Frankie’s weak spot, 
 damn it. But anyhow, it doesn’t matter very much 
 which of you started the hunt. You tasted the honey 
 as well as he did it, as far as was reported to me. 
 
 The two of you got drunk at M in company 
 
 with these two women. You got so mad drunk that 
 McPhillip went to shoot up the town. You might 
 have assisted him in that pastime, but your time was 
 occupied trying to pull a lamp-post up by the roots 
 in Oliver Plunket Street, for a bet of a gallon of 
 stout. In the very middle of your entertainment, 
 McPhillip met the secretary of the Farmers’ Union 
 and shot him dead. That made you get over your 
 drunkenness damn quick, didn’t it? The two of you 
 bolted without making any attempt to cover your 
 tracks. You ran like two hares. You came into 
 Dublin with a red herring of a story about an attack 
 
 96 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 and what not. It was a tall yarn. Well? D’ye 
 know what I’m going to tell you, Gypo?” 
 
 He paused dramatically and looked Gypo closely 
 in the eyes. Gypo never moved a muscle in his 
 face. He grunted interrogatively from somewhere 
 deep down in his chest. Gallagher continued very 
 slowly: 
 
 “I’m going to tell you this much, Gypo. Only for 
 me, you wouldn’t have got away with it as easily as 
 you did that time. There were others who wanted 
 to give you this, for disobeying orders.” 
 
 He moved his right hand suddenly beneath his 
 raincoat, thrusting it forward against Gypo’s lower 
 ribs. Gypo felt the contact of a blunt hard metal. 
 He knew it was the muzzle of Gallagher’s Colt 
 automatic pistol, but Gypo took no notice of the 
 pistol. He was not afraid of the pistol. But he was 
 afraid of Gallagher’s eyes into which he was looking 
 steadily. He didn’t like them. They were so cold 
 and blue and mysterious. Goodness knows what 
 might be hidden behind them. His face began an 
 irregular chaotic movement. His jaws, cheek-bones, 
 nose, mouth and forehead convulsed in opposite 
 directions, as if a draught of wind had stolen in 
 under the skin of his face and caused it to undulate. 
 Then the face set again. The neck swelled and the 
 little eyes bulged. 
 
 “No use tryin’ yer tricks on me, Danny Gallagher,” 
 he growled, knocking the pistol muzzle away with a 
 
 97 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 slight movement of his right hand. Although the 
 blow was slight, it caused Gallagher to reel back- 
 wards two paces before he regained his balance. 
 His face darkened for a moment and then again he 
 broke into a smile. Gypo continued in a thunderous 
 melancholy voice: “Gallagher, I got no use for you. 
 Them’s all lies ye were fellin’ just now about tryin’ 
 to save me life when I was before the Court of 
 Inquiry last October. I know very well they was. 
 Yerrah, are ye goin’ to tell me that yer not the chief 
 boss an’ God knows what in the Organization? 
 Who else has got any authority in it except yersel’? 
 Yah. I got no use for ye. Yer a liar. Yer no good. 
 An’ I’d be in my job yet in the police only for ye an’ 
 yer soft talk. It was you that got me outa me job 
 with yer promises o’ the Lord knows what. I declare 
 to Almighty God that I done more for yer bloody 
 Organization than any other man in Ireland. I done 
 things that no man unhung could do. An’ ye went 
 an’ threw me out on account of an ould farmer gettin’ 
 plugged. Me an’ McPhillip. What did we get for 
 it? Wha’ ... ye rotten . . .” 
 
 Gypo rambled off incoherently into a long string of 
 blasphemous curses, raising his voice as he did so. 
 His arms were raised outwards in a curve and his 
 head was lowered, as if he were in the act of perform- 
 ing a swimming exercise. He frothed at the mouth 
 and glared from one to the other of the three men, as 
 if undecided which to attack first. 
 
 98 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 Then suddenly a little wooden panel in the wall to 
 the right was raised up and a pretty red head was 
 pushed through. It was Kitty the barmaid. 
 
 “Lord save us,” she cried, putting her fingers to her 
 lips as she looked at Gypo. “Who is that fellah? 
 What’s he doin’ here, Dan?” 
 
 “That’s all right, Kitty,” said Gallagher with a 
 light laugh; “he’s a friend of mine. We are having a 
 cursing competition. 
 
 And he laughed heartily as he walked to the spit- 
 toon with the stub of his cigarette. 
 
 Gypo turned around and looked at the terrified 
 face of the barmaid. As he looked at her beautiful 
 face and her pretty soft hair that shimmered in the 
 artificial light, his head swam and his eyes went 
 watery. His anger left his body immediately so 
 that it seemed to empty and collapse. It had been 
 rigid and like a tree. Now it became loose and 
 jointless. He stood with stooping head and wonder- 
 ing eyes, looking at the barmaid. 
 
 The barmaid, seeing the change she had effected 
 by her presence in the unruly giant, grew conceited. 
 She smiled in a superior way and dabbed at her hair. 
 She looked around at the others with an air of: 
 “D’ye all see that now?” 
 
 Then Gallagher came up to the aperture jauntily, 
 took her two hands in his and looked enticingly into 
 her eyes. Her eyes winced for a moment as if she 
 had become suddenly afraid. Then she smiled 
 
 99 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 softly, wearily, like a woman passionately in love. 
 Gallagher bent down his head and whispered some- 
 thing in her ear. She burst into a loud laugh. 
 Gallagher smiled, listening to her. Then he sud- 
 denly sighed and rapped the counter curtly. 
 
 “Four glasses of Jameson’s quickly,” he said in a 
 low sharp cold voice. 
 
 The barmaid stopped laughing as suddenly as if 
 she had been stricken by a pain. She pulled down 
 the shutter, lisping as she did so: “Yes Dan.” 
 
 Gallagher came back to Gypo and put his hand 
 again on Gypo’s shoulder. Gypo had his two hands 
 now in his trousers pockets. After his unsuccessful 
 outburst he felt tired. He wanted to go away some- 
 where and lie down and sleep for days and days. 
 His mind was in a maze. He was very tired. As he 
 looked at Gallagher he even felt a longing to confide 
 his secret to him. Gallagher’s eyes were so devilishly 
 attractive. They seemed to draw things out of Gypo 
 towards themselves. They would be able to form a 
 plan and . . . 
 
 Gypo had uttered one syllable of Gallagher’s name 
 before he realized the real identity of the man and 
 the consequences of a confession to him. The name 
 died on his lips. Gallagher smiled. 
 
 “Gypo, old boy,” he said in a friendly tone, “ye 
 had better forget all that’s past. We’ve got some- 
 thing on hand that’s as much your business as ours. 
 So we can act together on it. That’s why I sent 
 
 100 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 Bartly Mulholland into McPhillip’s house to look 
 for ye. A pal of yours has been done in by the 
 police. D’ye hear? It looks like an informer’s job. 
 We have to get that informer. It’s really no business 
 of the Organization because Frank had ceased to be 
 a member. He was only an ordinary civilian crim- 
 inal as far as we are concerned. But an informer is 
 an informer. He’s got to be wiped out like the first 
 sign of a plague as soon as he’s spotted. He’s a 
 common enemy. He’s got to be got, Gypo. And it’s 
 up to you to give us a hand in tracking the traitor 
 that sent your pal to his death. Because . . .” 
 
 At that moment the slide was drawn up again 
 sharply and the barmaid appeared at the aperture 
 with four glasses of whisky on a tray. Gallagher 
 went to the aperture, paid for the whisky, handed 
 glasses to Connor and Mulholland, received his 
 change, pinched the barmaid’s cheek and made her 
 scream, laughed, pulled down the shutter himself 
 and then advanced smiling to Gypo with a glass of 
 whisky in each hand. He held out one glass to 
 Gypo. Gypo stared at it without making any move- 
 ment to take it or reject it. 
 
 He had followed all Gallagher’s movements with 
 the stupid and suspicious wonder of a terrified wild 
 animal that thinks some trick is being played on it. 
 Now he stared at the glass as if he suspected some 
 trick in that too. 
 
 “Take it,” said Gallagher coldly. “Take it, man, 
 
 101 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 if you’ve any sense. It’s better to have me as a 
 friend than as an enemy. If you are not going to 
 help us in this job . . . er . . . people might think 
 . . . er . . . that . . .” 
 
 “Uh,” began Gypo with a shrug of his whole body. 
 Then he stopped panting. He went on, speaking at 
 a very high pitch. “It’s not that but . . . Look 
 here . . . It’s how . . .” His voice suddenly deep- 
 ened into a hoarse shout, “It’s how I don’t know 
 what I’m doin’.” 
 
 He stopped. Gallagher glanced at Mulholland. 
 Mulholland’s cat’s eyes both winked inperceptibly. 
 
 “I’ve been starvin’ here for the past six months,” 
 continued Gypo, suddenly breaking out into a tor- 
 rent of words. He talked like a negro, hollow, 
 thunderous and melancholy. “I’ve been kicking 
 about this town an’ every one o’ you fellahs I met 
 passed me by without a word as if I never knew ye. 
 I been over in the House there, livin’ from hand 
 to mouth on whatever I could bum from sailors and 
 pimps and dockers. I got no clothes. I got no 
 money. I got nothin’. An’ then you come up all of 
 a sudden with yer soft talk. Well . . . uh . . . 
 how is it that . . .” 
 
 He came to a stop once more with his chest heav- 
 ing. He seemed to be about to go into a rage once 
 more, but suddenly Gallagher moved closer to him 
 and whispered gently and soothingly: 
 
 “Look here, Gypo. I’m going to make a fair deal 
 102 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 with you. I’ll admit you have done a lot for the 
 movement. You have paid the penalty during the 
 last six months for the dangerous position you placed 
 the whole Organization in last October. We’ll call 
 that quits on one condition. If you can give us a 
 clue to the man that informed on Francis Joseph 
 McPhillip I’ll get ye taken back again into the 
 Organization at yer old job on Head-quarters Staff. 
 Here. Take this drink.” 
 
 Gypo’s hand shot out immediately. He grasped 
 the glass and Gallagher’s hand both together in his 
 immense paw. The two men almost struggled trying 
 to disengage their hands. As soon as the glass was 
 free Gypo put it to his lips and drained it. Then he 
 stalked slowly over to the mantelpiece and placed 
 the empty glass on it. With his back to his com- 
 panions he paused to wipe his mouth with his sleeve. 
 
 He wanted time to compose himself. Gallagher’s 
 proposal had taken him so completely by surprise 
 that he was beside himself. Since that infernal 
 moment when he kicked open the door of the police- 
 station, his whole life had been submerged in a pitch- 
 black cloud that was impenetrable and offered no 
 escape. He had been alone, outcast, encompassed 
 by a universal horde of enemies. Now, suddenly, 
 he was offered a means of escape by the great Gal- 
 lagher himself. Gallagher, the great Gallagher, had 
 made him an offer. He would get back again into 
 the Organization. Again people would be afraid 
 
 103 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 of him. Again clever men would be always at hand 
 to make plans for him, to provide him with money 
 for doing daring things, to protect him, to praise 
 his recklessness, his strength and his . . . Mother 
 of Mercy! What Luck! 
 
 As he wiped his mouth on his sleeve at the counter 
 an insane idea struck him, such was his eagerness to 
 qualify immediately for readmission to the Organiza- 
 tion. For a moment he contemplated the man who 
 had gone into the police-station as a being apart 
 from himself. Sound began to gurgle up his throat. 
 It was an attempt on the part of his present person- 
 ality to speak and deliver information against that 
 dazed Gypo Nolan who had stumbled into the police- 
 station. But the sound froze in his throat, in a ball, 
 hurting him as if his tonsils had swollen suddenly. 
 He realized that he himself was one with that pon- 
 derous fellow, wearing a little tattered round hat, 
 who had gone into the police-station. It was only 
 another artifice on the part of something within 
 him, his conscience maybe, to persuade him to make 
 a confession of his betrayal. 
 
 That same impulse had confused him all the time 
 that he was looking at Mrs. McPhillip. 
 
 And then, just as in the public-house, when he had 
 been terrified by Katie Fox, his mind had given 
 birth to an insane plan about a sailor in a tavern, 
 so now also his mind conceived an amazing fabri- 
 cation. It entered his brain suddenly, like a thun- 
 
 104 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 der-storm, with noise and fury. His face and eyes 
 lit up. He opened his mouth. He walked over to 
 Gallagher quickly and spoke in a hissing whisper. 
 
 “I’ll tell ye who informed,” he gasped. “It’s the 
 Rat Mulligan. It’s him as sure as Christ was 
 crucified.” 
 
 The three men gathered up close to him. They all 
 looked behind them suspiciously and then stared at 
 him with narrowed eyes. There was a moment of 
 tense silence. Then each drew a deep breath. Con- 
 nor slipped his finger over the trigger of his revolver. 
 
 “The Rat Mulligan!” exclaimed Gallagher at 
 length. “How d’ye make that out, Gypo?” 
 
 “I’ll tell ye,” cried Gypo triumphantly. Then he 
 paused again and looked about him with furrowed 
 brows dramatically. “I didn’t like to say anythin’ 
 mesel’ for reasons that everybody knows. A man 
 can never be sure of a thing like that. An’ God 
 knows it’s a quare charge to bring agin a man. But 
 as ye put it the way ye put it, Commandant, about 
 him bein’ me pal an’ me duty to the Cause, well . . . 
 Still! Poor Mulligan!” 
 
 “Oh, come on,” cried Gallagher twitching with 
 excitement. “Get finished with what you have to 
 say. Make your statement, man.” 
 
 But Gypo was not to be hurried. An amazing 
 arrogance had taken possession of him. He reached 
 out towards the glass of whisky that Gallagher still 
 held untasted in his hand. 
 
 105 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 “Gimme that, Commandant,” he said, “seein’ as 
 yer not tastin’ it.” Gallagher nervously handed him 
 the drink. “Thanks. Here’s luck. Ah! Good 
 stuff that. Well. This is how it was. Just after 
 Frankie left me in the dining-room, I suddenly 
 thought to mesel’ that I had better run after him and 
 try an’ head him off from goin’ home. I had been 
 tryin’ to make him clear out of town again an’ not go 
 near Titt Street, but the same cranky fellah that he 
 always was wouldn’t listen to a word of what I said. 
 So that I said to mesel’, Lord have mercy on him, 
 ‘Well, me fine fellah, I’m not goin’ to get mesel’ into 
 a fever, tryin’ to keep ye outa harm’s way an’ get 
 cursed upside down for doin’ so.’ Well anyway, as 
 soon as he had gone, I decided to follow him and give 
 him a last shout. I ran out into the hall an’ who do 
 I see but the Rat sneakin’ around the corner. I ran 
 down the hall. There was the Rat at the door with 
 his hands in his overcoat pockets peerin’ up the lane. 
 Then he dived out into the street, I chased after 
 him. I was just in time to see Frankie turnin’ the 
 corner into the road with the Rat crawlin’ after him. 
 It’s as clear as daylight. So it is. Lord have mercy 
 on the dead, if I had only thought of it at the time, 
 Frankie might have been alive at this minute instead 
 o’ bein’ a frozen corpse. Give us another drink, 
 Commandant. Me throat is parched.” 
 
 Without a word or a glance Gallagher walked up 
 to the counter and rapped at the aperture. Gypo 
 
 106 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 did not even condescend to follow his movements. 
 His conceit was now boundless. He realized that he 
 himself was amazingly cunning. He even felt a con- 
 tempt for Gallagher in his mind. As for Mulholland 
 and Connor . . . He glanced at them appraisingly, 
 as a man might glance at a useful pair of dogs. It 
 was the same kind of glance that Gallagher was 
 in the habit of directing towards everybody. 
 
 Gallagher brought a fresh glass of whisky and 
 handed it to him. He took it without a word of 
 thanks. He walked to the spittoon and emptied his 
 mouth into it. Then he swallowed the drink again 
 at one draught. He put the empty glass on the 
 mantelpiece and coughed deeply. He clasped his 
 hands behind his back with a loud sound. He began 
 to balance himself backwards and forwards on his 
 heels like a policeman. 
 
 “How didn’t I think of it before?” he cried, looking 
 thoughtfully at the ceiling. 
 
 He was completely immersed now in the contem- 
 plation of his own cleverness. He did not notice the 
 utter silence with which his story had been received 
 by Gallagher and the other two men. He was con- 
 templating with pleasure the old days, when he had 
 a criminal in his charge, in the cells, at the police- 
 station. He used to stand for a whole hour in the 
 stillness of the night, baiting the prisoner, terror- 
 izing him with his eyes, with a sudden display of 
 strength, with a mad laugh, with silent staring. He 
 
 107 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 was feeling that same sensation now. Exhilarated 
 by the whisky he had drunk and carried away by 
 the concentrated nerve strain of the past few hours, 
 he imagined that he had Gallagher and the other 
 two men at his mercy, that he was a policeman and 
 that they were civilians who were asking a favour of 
 him, an illegal favour that put them in his power. 
 It was just that way in the old days, when he used to 
 sell Gallagher little tit-bits of information over a 
 drink; little harmless, he thought, bits of informa- 
 tion, about head-quarters routine and the disposition 
 of the detective-force personnel. 
 
 “Think of what before?” Gallagher remarked 
 coldly. 
 
 He spoke slowly and casually, looking at Gypo 
 in a brooding way. 
 
 “Why, I mean the grudge that the Rat had in for 
 Frankie,” Gypo replied confidentially and with an 
 air of great importance. 
 
 “What grudge are you referring to?” 
 
 “Oh, it’s a long story,” said Gypo with a sigh, as he 
 walked over to the spittoon and spat into it. Then 
 he hitched up his trousers. He cleared his throat 
 with a tremendous noise. It was very tantalizing. 
 “Stand us another drink, Commandant, before they 
 close,” he cried suddenly, with amazing nonchalance. 
 
 “By the lumpin’ Moses!” ejaculated Gallagher. 
 “You’re a cool customer, Gypo. Ha, ha, ha! Well 
 now! You’re worth another drink anyway.” 
 
 108 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 He winked secretly at Mulholland and Connor as 
 he walked over to the aperture. Gypo called after 
 him almost contemptuously. 
 
 “Hurry up,” he said, as he looked at the clock with 
 a scowling face, “we only have another minute. It’s 
 a minute to eleven.” 
 
 Again four glasses of whisky were passed around. 
 Gypo took his and swallowed it at a draught. This 
 time he took the glass from Gallagher’s hand with- 
 out asking for it. He swallowed that also at a 
 draught, as if he were going through a public ex- 
 hibition of his drinking powers. Mulholland and 
 Connor swallowed their drinks hurriedly, as if they 
 were afraid that he was going to take theirs too. He 
 walked over to the mantelpiece and put the two 
 empty glasses on it. He looked at the five glasses he 
 had emptied and smiled broadly. He whacked his 
 chest with a loud sound. 
 
 “Come on now, comrade,” said Gallagher sharply, 
 “out with your news. No fooling.” 
 
 “All right,” said Gypo, thrusting forward his huge 
 head so that it looked like a battering-ram, suddenly 
 attached to his collar-bone. “D’ye remember the 
 Rat’s sister Cusie? She used to be a member o’ the 
 Organization. She ” 
 
 “All right,” snapped Gallagher angrily. “I remem- 
 ber her. What about her? What has she got to do 
 with it?” 
 
 “Well, why wouldn’t she have a lot to do with it? 
 
 109 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 She had a baby, didn’t she? Didn’t she leave ” 
 
 “What d’you know about her baby?” hissed Galla- 
 gher. He was deadly pale. 
 
 “Don’t get yer rag out, Commandant,” leered 
 Gypo with a broad laugh. He was slightly drunk 
 and insolent. “Hit a sore spot, wha’? Well, I 
 don’t know anythin’ about that. Ye can set yer 
 mind at rest. Frank McPhillip was the father o’ 
 that kid an’ he refused to marry her. I remember 
 me an’ him were at the back o’ Cassidy’s havin’ a 
 pint one night, when somebody came in an’ asked 
 Frankie to step around the corner a minute. He 
 was gone a long time so I followed him, suspectin’ 
 that there might be a bit o’ foul play. But I found 
 him an’ Susie jawin’ away to beat the band. She 
 was cryin’ an’ askin’ him to take her away with him 
 somewhere. O’ course he didn’t budge. Next day 
 she went to the ’Pool. Gone on Lime Street, as far 
 as I can hear. Well! You bet yer life that’s why 
 the Rat did it. That’s why he informed.” 
 
 Gallagher looked at Mulholland. Mulholland 
 wrinkled his forehead and shook his head slightly. 
 Then he looked at Gypo curiously. Connor’s mouth 
 was wide open and there was a look of wonder in his 
 eyes as he gaped at Gypo. Gypo was tightening his 
 trousers belt. 
 
 “Well, Commandant,” he said, when he had fin- 
 ished, “Yer word holds good about takin’ me back 
 into the Organization?” 
 
 110 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 “Steady on,” murmured Gallagher dreamily, star- 
 ing at the ground. “We have to verify your state- 
 ment first. If your statement is true you’ll get back 
 all right.” Suddenly he looked up, smiling, with 
 sparkling eyes. He seized Gypo by the right hand 
 and smiled into his face in a friendly intimate way. 
 “Listen. There’s a Court of Inquiry to-night at 
 half-past one. Be there. Mulholland will take you 
 up there. You can arrange to meet him somewhere. 
 You can rely on me, comrade, to fix you up again. 
 You did good work before, comrade, and you’ll do 
 good work again for the liberation of your class.” 
 
 Gypo gripped Gallagher’s hand and squeezed it 
 eagerly. Then he clicked his heels and saluted in a 
 grandiose fashion. Then he turned to Mulholland. 
 
 “I’ll be at Biddy Burke’s place,” he whispered; 
 “about one o’clock. I’ll see ye there.” 
 
 “Right ye are,” answered Mulholland. 
 
 “Good night, boys,” cried Gypo in a loud hearty 
 voice. 
 
 Then he stalked out of the room, striking the floor 
 with his heels fiercely and clearing his throat. 
 
 They all looked after him in silence for two 
 seconds. Then somebody called, “Time, gentlemen, 
 time.” Gallagher started. 
 
 “\Vell, I’ll be damned,” he cried, striking his left 
 hand into his right. 
 
 “It’s him,” hissed Connor, rushing up to Gallagher 
 with open mouth. 
 
 Ill 
 

 THE INFORMER 
 
 “Shut up, you fool,” snapped Gallagher. 
 
 “Listen, Commandant,” cried Mulholland excit- 
 edly; “it’s him. I’ll swear it is, because ” 
 
 “Damn you,” snarled Gallagher, “who is asking 
 your opinion? Give me your report. Quick, quick. 
 Don’t make a song of it.” 
 
 In short jerky statements, with rapid gestures, 
 Mulholland described all that had happened at No. 
 44 Titt Street, Gypo’s excitement, the falling of the 
 money to the floor, Gypo’s giving it to Mrs. Mc- 
 Phillip, his rush from the house. Then suddenly he 
 began in a whining voice to recount all he had done 
 since he had been mobilized at eight o’clock on 
 receipt of the news of Francis McPhillip’s death. 
 But Gallagher cut him short. 
 
 “Cut that out,” he cried. “Did the police find any 
 papers at No. 44? No. Good. Was anything 
 found on the body? You don’t know. Well, you 
 better find out to-morrow at the inquest. Now beat 
 it. Keep at Gypo’s heels like a pot of glue. Find 
 out every damn thing you can. Bring him along 
 sharp to the Bogey Hole at one-thirty. Off.” 
 
 Mulholland disappeared without a word. Galla- 
 1 ' 1 ' ~ or. 
 
 “You Connor. Mobilize six men of your section. 
 
 Get him to the Bogey Hole. 
 
 Get busy.” 
 
 Connor mumbled something and disappeared. 
 Gallagher remained staring at the ground, alone, 
 
 112 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 lost in thought. Drunken voices were singing in the 
 next compartment. Feet were shuffling. A droning 
 voice cried constantly: “Time, please, gentlemen, 
 time.” 
 
 Gallagher’s eyes distended dreamily. He sighed. 
 
 “The least little rift,” he murmured to himself, 
 “and everything is burst open. Then it’s all up with 
 me. I’ve got to stamp out this damned informer 
 whoever he is. It may be Gypo. It might be the 
 Rat, though that’s very doubtful. That’s of no con- 
 sequence. What is of consequence is the fact that 
 there is an informer. . . . Good God! An informer 
 is the great danger. Every man’s hand is against 
 me. It’s only fear that protects me. I must make 
 an example of this fallow.” 
 
 His voice had gradually died out. Now silence 
 reigned in the room again. The room was hot and 
 stifling, full of the smell of stale drink and tobacco. 
 He stared at the floor. 
 
 A cockroach peered out of its hole, contemplated a 
 blotch of drink four inches away from its snout and 
 then disappeared again. It would come out later on 
 and suck the blotch. 
 
 The distance was full of sound as if many things 
 were happening there. 
 
 Then Gallagher raised his head with a start. He 
 sighed and walked rapidly over to the aperture. He 
 tapped the panel with his knuckles. It was raised up 
 almost immediately. The pretty red head appeared. 
 
 113 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 Gallagher nodded. The red head disappeared again 
 and the slide was pulled down. Gallagher waited. 
 After three seconds a little door to the left was 
 opened quietly and the barmaid stepped into the 
 room, shutting the door carefully behind her. She 
 rushed immediately to Gallagher and threw her arms 
 around his neck. He kissed her lips several times 
 rapidly. Then he unwound her arms. 
 
 “Got anything for me?” he asked. 
 
 She nodded and took a piece of paper from within 
 the breast of her black dress. He stuck it within his 
 raincoat. 
 
 “Right,” he muttered dreamily. 
 
 Then he kissed her again on the lips and patted 
 her cheek. He took a pace away, but she grabbed 
 at him. She held him, looking beseechingly into his 
 face. 
 
 “Have ye got nothin’ to say to me, Dan?” she 
 whispered, almost sobbing. 
 
 “For goodness’ sake, Kitty, have sense,” he mut- 
 tered savagely. “This is no time for jig-acting.” 
 He put a finger to his throat. “I’m up to here in it. 
 The whole Organization is in danger.” 
 
 “O Lord! What is it, Dan? Tell me.” 
 
 “An informer. See ye to-morrow. Let me go. 
 Good night.” 
 
 He kissed her on the forehead. Her arms loos- 
 ened. He was gone. She looked after him de- 
 
 114 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 jectedly. Then she shivered and gripped her 
 breasts. 
 
 Gallagher walked up Titt Street. Here and there 
 a workman recognized him and saluted respect- 
 fully. He did not acknowledge the salutes. He 
 wheeled sharply in at the door of No. 44 and 
 knocked. The door was opened almost immediately 
 by Mary McPhillip. She also started and put her 
 hand to her breast when she saw him. 
 
 “Good evening, Mary/’ he said gently, holding out 
 his hand. “May I come in? I want to speak to 
 your mother.” 
 
 “Yes,” said Mary excitedly; “mother is in the 
 kitchen, but you had better come into the parlour. 
 Father is in the kitchen, too, and there would 
 surely be a row if he saw you.” 
 
 “Oh, that’s all right,” said Gallagher. “Is there 
 anybody else there?” 
 
 “No, everybody else is gone.” 
 
 “Who is that yer talkin’ to, Mary?” came Jack 
 McPhillip’s voice from the kitchen. 
 
 “Nobody atall, father,” cried Mary. 
 
 “Don’t I hear a man’s voice,” cried the father. 
 “Who is he?” 
 
 “Hist! It’s all right,” whispered Gallagher, push- 
 ing past her as she tried to speak again. “He won’t 
 bite me. It’s just me, Mr. McPhillip. How are 
 you? I’m very sorry to hear of your trouble.” 
 
 115 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 The two of them met at the kitchen door. They 
 stared at one another for a moment. Then Galla- 
 gher made a movement to come forward and Mc- 
 Phillip with a little start, moved backwards. He did 
 not speak until he was near the bed again. 
 
 “Oh, it’s you, is it?” he said angrily. “An’ what 
 brings you here at this hour of the night?” 
 
 Gallagher took no notice of him. He turned to 
 Mrs. McPhillip who was still in the same position 
 by the fire, telling her rosary beads. 
 
 “I am sorry to trouble you, Mrs. McPhillip,” he 
 said gently and respectfully, “ in the middle of your 
 . . . eh . . . but there’s a question or two I have 
 to ask you for the sake of him that’s dead. Would 
 you be kind enough to — ” 
 
 “And what right have you to ask a question or 
 two?” cried McPhillip, raging because Gallagher 
 had refused even to talk to him. 
 
 He was sitting on the bed now. He sat on the bed 
 timidly, as if he were in somebody else’s house. 
 
 Gallagher turned to him slowly and looked at him 
 fiercely in the eyes. 
 
 “I have the right,” he said, “of a revolutionary to 
 track a traitor to the cause.” 
 
 “Ha!” sneered McPhillip. “An’ what kind of a 
 revolutionary d’ye call yersel’?” 
 
 “A revolutionary Communist,” answered Galla- 
 gher. 
 
 116 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 Then he turned about insolently and bent down 
 his head to talk to Mrs. McPhillip. 
 
 Communist be damned/’ cried McPhillip, jump- 
 ing off the bed. D’ye know what I’m goin’ to tell 
 ye? Ye ” 
 
 “Father,” cried Mary, wringing her hands, 
 “don’t ” 
 
 “Shut up, you young rip,” stamped the father; 
 “am I master in me own house or am I not? You, 
 ye Communist, as ye call yersel’! Yer the greatest 
 scoundrel in Ireland. Yer the greatest enemy o’ 
 yer class. Now, let me alone, Mary, or I’ll tan yer 
 skin for ye. Let me tell him. . . . Let me . . . 
 Let go,” he screamed shrilly, as she seized him 
 tightly about the body and began to push him forcibly 
 from the room. 
 
 He placed his hands and feet against the jambs 
 of the door and turning his head around, he con- 
 tinued in a half-hysterical voice: 
 
 “It’s the likes o’ me that’s the revolutionaries, but 
 we get no credit for it. It’s the likes o’ me that does 
 the hard work, eddicatin’ me fellow-men, an’ at the 
 same time strikin’ an honest blow for better condi- 
 tions. But men like you are criminals. Criminals, 
 criminals, that’s what yez are. Don’t lay hands on 
 yer father, Mary. Don’t ” 
 
 “I’m not touching you,” cried Mary. “Come on 
 now. Get to bed.” 
 
 117 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 She got him into the hall. He sighed and broke 
 into half-stifled sobs. Going up the stairs he kept 
 saying in a low melancholy voice: 
 
 “If I had only put him on the scaffoldin’ with me, 
 instead of eddicatin’ him, maybe he’d be alive an’ an 
 honest man to-day. If I had only . . .” 
 
 Then his voice died away into a mumble as a door 
 closed behind him upstairs. 
 
 When Mary returned to the kitchen after putting 
 him to bed, she found Gallagher sitting beside her 
 mother, writing rapidly in a notebook. He had 
 taken off his hat. His close-cropped black head 
 looked very handsome to her. Still she shivered 
 looking at it. The side face looked very cruel, with 
 the brooding expression on it, as he looked down- 
 wards at the notebook. 
 
 She stood watching him until he finished writing. 
 Then he sighed. He got up. He said a few words 
 to Mrs. McPhillip. Then he shook hands with her 
 and turned to Mary. 
 
 “I want to speak to you,” he said. 
 
 She led him into the parlour excitedly. It was 
 dark there and she had to fumble around for matches 
 to light the gas. She couldn’t find them. Galla- 
 gher offered his box. He lit a match. She went to 
 take it from him. Their fingers touched. She 
 started and stumbled over something. The match 
 fell from his fingers and went out. He reached out 
 his hands to catch her as she stumbled. He caught 
 
 118 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 her by the wrists and held her tightly. They had 
 not spoken a word. It was very queer in the dark- 
 ness. Their faces were very close together, but they 
 could not see one another. They stood still, each 
 of them mastered by some strange impulse, that 
 bound their tongues. They stood still, in the utter 
 darkness and silence of the little stuffed room, for 
 almost a minute. Then Gallagher spoke. He spoke 
 in a soft whisper. The sound of his voice was soft 
 and caressing. His lips were so close to hers that his 
 breath came moist to her lips. There was a catch in 
 his voice, as if the volume of sound were not strong 
 enough to steady itself on the air. 
 
 “Mary,” he said, “I want you to come to a Court 
 of Inquiry with me to-night.” 
 
 She made no attempt to reply. Neither did he 
 seem to expect a reply. It seemed that the words 
 and their implication were foreign to the purpose of 
 their meeting here. It seemed that the coursing of 
 their blood and the confused beating of their hearts, 
 was in response to some prearranged assignation of 
 declared love. 
 
 But there had never been a question of amorous 
 relations between them. They had never met in 
 privacy like this before. Their previous meetings 
 were more in the nature of quarrels. Mary had 
 always disputed with Gallagher, particularly of late, 
 when she had become violently opposed to him. 
 But now in the darkness, in the solitude, both she 
 
 119 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 and he were mastered by some amazing emotion 
 that was inexplicable. 
 
 “Dan,” she whispered suddenly, “you make me 
 afraid. Why are we standing here in the darkness? 
 What do you want with me?” 
 
 “I want you to revenge your brother,” said Galla- 
 gher suddenly, as if he had obeyed an unforeseen im- 
 pulse and broached an unexpected subject, with which 
 his mind had hitherto only toyed nervously. “I want 
 you to join me, Mary. I want you to take your 
 brother’s place in the Organization. But a greater 
 place than he held. No. It’s not your brother’s 
 place I want you to take but . . .” 
 
 “Dan, what are you talking about?” she panted in 
 a terrified voice. 
 
 There was a pause during which Gallagher imper- 
 ceptibly moved his face closer to hers. Their lips 
 met. They kissed gently. Then she drew back 
 suddenly, shivering violently. She wanted to rush 
 away and to shout, but the fascination of his voice 
 was upon her. His voice and the glamour of his face. 
 His face and the romance of his life. She was bound 
 suddenly by it. Suddenly too, it became apparent 
 to her why she had been eager to convert him. It 
 had been in order to meet him, with a plausible 
 excuse. 
 
 And she was almost engaged to Joseph Augustine 
 Short, who was a “gentleman,” who would place her 
 in a respectable sphere of life, who would free her 
 
 120 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 for ever from the hated associations of her slum life 
 with its squalor, its revolutionary crises, its damn- 
 able insecurity, its soul-devouring monotony. 
 
 Mother of Mercy! Was she in love with Galla- 
 gher? Was she going to be drawn into the web of 
 his conspiracies by the deadly fascination of his face 
 and of his voice, by the romance of his life? 
 
 “Mary,” he murmured at last, “you are the re- 
 mainder of me. The two of us together would make 
 a complete whole. There would be nothing else 
 wanting to the two of us, no unfulfilled . . . er 
 . . . well . . . it’s not that either. I have not 
 fully worked out that part of the theory. I have ap- 
 proached it from another point of view.” 
 
 “What is it, Dan?” She drew away her face 
 farther and loosened one hand. He was wrapped in 
 dreams now and he did not attempt to stop her. 
 In fact he let her go altogether suddenly and sat on 
 the table, simply holding her right hand in his. 
 “What do you want with me?” she said again. 
 
 “I want you to join me,” he muttered almost in- 
 audibly, wrapped in his thoughts. 
 
 “Dan, I don’t understand,” she gasped, afraid of 
 his voice. 
 
 “How? How?” he muttered. “Why don’t you 
 understand? I want you to join me.” 
 
 “Do you mean ... to ... to ... to marry 
 you?” 
 
 “Oh rot,” he cried irritably, waking from his half- 
 121 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 reverie and turning towards her. “These ridicul- 
 ulous conventions don’t enter my consciousness. 
 Not only have I no respect for them, but they don’t 
 enter my consciousness. You understand the sig- 
 nificance of that. My personality is entirely in 
 keeping with my mission in life. For me all these 
 words attain their true values. Marriage, for in- 
 stance, is truly a capitalist word meaning an arrange- 
 ment for the protection of property so that legiti- 
 mate sons could inherit it. So I don’t have to argue 
 with it in my own mind in order to rid myself of a 
 belief in it. Most men have to do that. I am a 
 hundred years before my time. I want to destroy 
 the idea of property. It is my mission. I don’t 
 want to leave property to my children. I don’t 
 want children. They are nothing to me. The per- 
 petuation of my life is in my work, in men’s thoughts, 
 in the fulfillment of my mission. That’s why I 
 want you to join me, because I feel something, an 
 affinity maybe — that’s a wrong word though — be- 
 tween you and myself. I am sure there is a natural 
 relationship, chemical maybe, between the two of us. 
 We are two parts of one whole. I am sure of that. 
 No, damn it all. What a ridiculous idea! I don’t 
 want you to join me for the purpose of cohabitation. 
 I have no time to make sentiment a main impulse 
 of my desire to live. Neither have you. I am cer- 
 tain of it. You are governed by other impulses. 
 
 122 
 
I 
 
 THE INFORMER 
 
 Maybe you don’t know it. Probably you are afraid 
 to analyse yourself. But I know it. I don’t know 
 it. I feel it. ‘Know’ is not a proper word. It’s 
 out of use. ‘Feel’ is better. It is an outcome of the 
 new consciousness that I am discovering. But I 
 haven’t worked that out fully yet. It’s only em- 
 bryonic.” 
 
 He paused. She started when he stopped. She 
 had not been listening to what he had been saying. 
 She had been arguing with herself. She had not 
 succeeded in settling with her conscience what she 
 had been discussing when he stopped. She bit her 
 lip and started. She was blushing. 
 
 “Tell me, Dan,” she whispered, “do you believe in 
 anything? Do you even believe in Communism? 
 Do you feel pity for the working class?” 
 
 Gallagher uttered an exclamation of contempt and 
 shrugged his shoulders. He panted as he spoke, 
 such was the rapidity of his words, in an effort to 
 keep pace with the rapidity of his tempestuous 
 thoughts. 
 
 “No,” he said, “I believe in nothing fundamen- 
 tally. And I don’t feel pity. Nothing fundamental 
 that has consciousness capable of being understood 
 by a human being exists, so I don’t believe in any- 
 thing, since an intelligent person can only believe in 
 something that is fundamental. If I could believe in 
 something fundamental, then the whole superstruc- 
 
 123 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 ture of life would be capable of being comprehended 
 by me. Life would resolve itself into a period of 
 intense contemplation. Action would be impossible. 
 There would be no inducement for action. There 
 would be some definite measurement for explaining 
 everything. Men seek only that which offers no ex- 
 planation of itself. But wait a minute. I haven’t 
 worked out that fully yet. It’s only in the theoret- 
 ical stage yet. I have no time. 
 
 “But you spoke of pity. Pity? Pity is a ridic- 
 ulous sensation for a man of my nature. We are 
 incapable of it. A revolutionary is incapable of feel- 
 ing pity. Listen. The philosophy of a revolution- 
 ary is this. Civilization is a process in the develop- 
 ment of the human species. I am an atom of the 
 human species, groping in advance, impelled by a 
 force over which neither I nor the human species 
 have any control. I am impelled by the Universal 
 Law to thrust forward the human species from one 
 phase of its development to another. I am at war 
 with the remainder of the species. I am a Christ 
 beating them with rods. I have no mercy. I have 
 no pity. I have no beliefs. I am not master of 
 myself. I am an automaton. I am a revolutionary. 
 And there is no reward for me but the satisfaction 
 of one lust, the lust for the achievement of my mis- 
 sion, for power maybe, but I haven’t worked out 
 that yet. I am not certain that the lust for power 
 is a true impulse, a true . . . but listen. That can 
 
 124 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 come later. Can you give me an answer now? 
 Will you join me?” 
 
 “No ... no, Dan. Stop. Listen.” She gasped, 
 holding him back. “Not now. Later on I’ll tell 
 you. On a night like this, with death in the house, 
 how can you talk of . . . ?” 
 
 “Why?” he uttered fiercely. “What night would 
 be better suited for you to join me? Don’t you 
 want to avenge your brother’s death? Don’t you 
 want . . .” 
 
 “Dan, Dan,” she gasped, struggling away as he 
 attempted to seize her in his arms, “don’t touch me 
 or I’ll scream. I’m so excited.” 
 
 There was a pause. Their breathing was loud in 
 the silence. A noise came from the kitchen. 
 
 “That’s mother going to bed, Dan,” said Mary 
 hurriedly. “You must go, Dan.” 
 
 “Will you come to the Court of Inquiry to-night?” 
 
 “Dan, I’d rather ” 
 
 “You must come, Mary. You must. You ” 
 
 “All right, Dan, I’ll come.” 
 
 “Good. I’ll come for you. Be ready at one 
 o’clock.” 
 
 “All right, I’ll be ready.” 
 
 “Be waiting in the parlour here. I’ll knock on 
 the window.” 
 
 “All right, Dan. Go now immediately. I’m com- 
 ing, mother. Good night.” 
 
 He bent hurriedly and kissed her lips. Then he 
 125 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 stumbled from the room. She waited until the hall 
 door closed behind him. Then she shuddered as the 
 barmaid had done. 
 
 Gallagher walked away northwards furiously, with 
 glittering eyes, thinking. 
 
 126 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 W ALKING OUT FROM THE PUBLIC-HOUSE INTO 
 the street, Gypo felt as if he had leapt 
 suddenly into an arena, where he was to 
 perform astounding feats, while an amazed audience, 
 with two million eyes, gazed silent and spell-bound. 
 He thrust his head into the air. He let his arms 
 hang limply from his shoulders in front of his body. 
 He took two staggering steps forward and uttered 
 a long-drawn-out yell. 
 
 It was that peculiar yell that mountaineers will 
 utter in the west of Ireland, when the fair is over in 
 the district town and night is falling, as they issue 
 from the public-houses, bareheaded and wild-eyed, 
 dragging their snorting and shivering mares after 
 them by the halter. 
 
 Gypo’s yell was just such a one. It was like a 
 challenge to mortal combat issued to all and sundry. 
 He felt beside himself with strength. He was free 
 again. Had not Gallagher given him his word that 
 everything would be all right? Would he not be 
 taken back again into the Organization? Had he 
 not thrown suspicion on to the Rat Mulligan? He 
 was free again. Ye-a-a-aw! 
 
 He staggered to the kerbstone and yelled, letting 
 127 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 his body go completely limp with ecstasy. Then, 
 breathing heavily through his nostrils, he stood erect 
 and looked about him to see what effect his yell had 
 produced. There was a small crowd of people near 
 by. They had just come out of Ryan’s public-house 
 and from Shaughnessy’s, another public-house ten 
 yards away at the corner of a lane. The corner was 
 brilliant with light, from the public-houses, from a 
 fried-fish and potato shop, and from a drapery shop 
 where the lights were kept on all night by the owner, 
 with the idea that the light might terrify gunmen 
 and housebreakers. 
 
 Gypo stood out in the blaze of light, on the kerb- 
 stone, with the beads of rainwater on his white 
 woollen muffler reflected like dewdrops in the arti- 
 ficial light. The people looked at him in amazement 
 and with that intense satisfaction which the pro- 
 letariat of the slums always derives from something 
 unexpected and extraordinary happening, at no cost 
 to themselves. A spectacle had presented itself. 
 The crowd began to swell. 
 
 Gypo had not intended to carry the affair any 
 further. In fact he had not intended to yell at all. 
 But when he saw the crowd he became amused. He 
 pitched on a man who stood near, a tall, thin, respect- 
 ably dressed man, who had a sour expression on his 
 face. 
 
 “What are ye lookin’ at me for?” cried Gypo, 
 staring the fellow in the face insolently. 
 
 128 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 “I’m not lookin’ at ye,” snapped the man irritably. 
 
 “Yer a liar,” bellowed Gypo, “don’t I see ye lookin’ 
 at me?” 
 
 “Well a cat can look at a king,” cried the stranger, 
 thrusting out his chin and spitting venomously to 
 his left. 
 
 “What are ye sayin’ about kings?” said Gypo 
 angrily. 
 
 “Better say nothin’ about kings around here, me 
 lad. I think yer lookin’ for trouble. I’ve got a 
 good mind to give ye a wallop in the jaw.” 
 
 “Ye would, would ye?” cried the stranger, making 
 a move to take his hands out of his coat pockets. 
 
 But he was too late. Gypo’s right hand swung 
 around. The man went down like a bag of nails 
 dropped to an iron deck. Somebody cried: “Lord, 
 save us.” Gypo stood over the fallen man with his 
 chest heaving. A policeman appeared from some- 
 where in the rear. He advanced rapidly, shouldering 
 the people and trying to snatch something from 
 under his cape as he made for Gypo. 
 
 “Look out, look out,” cried an old woman, through 
 her cupped hands. 
 
 Gypo looked on either side hurriedly and then he. 
 heard the excited breathing of the policeman ap- 
 proaching from behind. He tried to turn about, 
 but the policeman was upon him. The policeman’s 
 hands closed about his biceps and jerked back both 
 his arms to lock them behind his back. The arms 
 
 129 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 were half-way back before Gypo could mobilize 
 his vast strength to arrest their retreat. There was 
 a loud snap of bones being strained taut when 
 Gypo’s strength collided with the policeman’s 
 strength at the point on Gypo’s biceps where the 
 policeman’s hands rested. 
 
 Both men groaned loudly. The policeman’s boots 
 tore at the wet pavement, making a noise like dry 
 cloth being rent, as he struggled to keep firm. 
 Slowly Gypo leaned forward until the policeman’s 
 body was on his back. 
 
 Then he thrust back his head with a snarl. His 
 poll collided with the policeman’s chin. There was a 
 dull thud and a snap. Gypo uttered an oath and 
 thrust his head downwards towards his knees, hold- 
 ing his thighs rigid. Before the head had reached 
 the knees, the policeman had hurtled through the 
 air with a scream of terror, right over Gypo’s head. 
 
 He fell with three separate soft sounds to the 
 street, with his right side against the concrete wall of 
 a house. He fell on his back. He rose again in the 
 middle, resting on his right hand and on his heels. 
 He brandished his left hand towards Gypo and at 
 the same time he tried to grip a fleeing spectator 
 with it. Then he moaned and subsided again. 
 
 “Run, Gypo,” said somebody. 
 
 Gypo ran towards a lane at a fast run. He was 
 followed by a crowd. Others gathered around the 
 fallen policeman. 
 
 130 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 Gypo halted at the far end of the lane, in a dark 
 corner. The crowd gathered around him. Every- 
 body was panting with excitement. They all stared 
 down the lane towards the blaze of light where the 
 policeman lay. They began to jabber. 
 
 “I can see trouble cornin’,” said one. “The sojers 
 ’ll be here shortly. Then yer goin’ to see some 
 pluggin’.” 
 
 “Gwan,” said another contemptuously. “There’s 
 no sojers goin’ to come down here. Ye wouldn’t 
 get a sojer in the town to dare come within a mile 
 of Titt Street on this blessed night, after what hap- 
 pened to-day.” 
 
 At the mention of “what happened to-day,” a man 
 cursed, a woman crossed herself piously under her 
 shawl, an angry silence fell. 
 
 Gypo stood with his hands in his pockets, paying 
 no heed to the talk. With his lips stuck out, he was 
 looking gloomily down the lane towards the blaze 
 of light. He was enjoying himself immensely. 
 
 “Hist, hist!” somebody cried. “Look, look.” 
 
 Two policemen crossed the blaze of light, bearing 
 their fallen comrade between them. A few women 
 and small boys followed them. Then two more 
 policemen came, hauling along the man whom Gypo 
 had struck. They were dragging him uncere- 
 moniously, holding him by the armpits, with his 
 feet trailing along the ground and his arms dangling. 
 They were probably under the impression that it 
 
 131 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 was he who had felled their comrade. The man 
 made an effort to wrench himself free, but they 
 tightened their hold on his arms. He writhed and 
 went limp again, allowing himself to be dragged 
 lifelessly. A woman, with straggling red hair and a 
 child on her back in a black shawl, danced in front 
 of the policemen, screaming and gesticulating, de- 
 manding the man’s release. Then the procession 
 passed out of sight with a mad rush of feet and a 
 medley of indiscriminate noises. 
 
 “Let’s go back,” muttered a young man who had a 
 slight hump. 
 
 Gypo grunted and hitched up his trousers. He put 
 his hand to his head to settle his hat jauntily before 
 leading the way back. But instead he uttered an 
 oath. His little round torn hat was not there. His 
 massive round skull stood bare under the night. It 
 stood naked, hummocked and gashed here and 
 there, like a badly shorn sheep. He traversed the 
 skull with his right palm, in little flurried rushes, 
 as if he had had a vague suspicion that the hat was 
 hiding somewhere along the expanse of skull. Then 
 he set out at a wild rush down the lane, followed by 
 the crowd, to retrieve the hat, as if his life depended 
 on it. For the first time, since Gallagher had given 
 his word, terror again invaded his mind. If they 
 discovered the hat they might be able to discover the 
 identity of that ponderous fellow who had gone into 
 the police-station. . . . 
 
 132 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 But no. He rushed into the road and brought up 
 with a slither of his right foot on the wet pavement. 
 The hat was lying in the gutter before his eyes. It 
 lay crushed beside a flattened little cardboard choco- 
 late box and an orange skin. It had been trodden on 
 by a small bare foot. The impress of a wet heel was 
 on its right side. 
 
 He grabbed it up hurriedly, punched it into shape 
 and crammed it on to his skull with both hands. 
 Then he laughed aloud and turned to the people. 
 
 “I thought I had lost it,” he cried affectionately. 
 “I had it this two years.” 
 
 The crowd gaped at the hat as if it had magical 
 properties. Others who had run up without know- 
 ing what had already happened gaped at Gypo’s 
 humpy face, at his ruminative eyes and his eyebrows 
 that were like snouts, at the red fat backs of his 
 hands, as he held them to his throat tightening the 
 white woollen muffler about his neck. There were 
 agitated whispers on the outskirts of the ragged 
 crowd. 
 
 “He’s stronger than any bull.” 
 
 “How? Why? What did he do?” from a dozen 
 throats. 
 
 “Wait till I tell ye. I saw him with me own eyes 
 send Scrapper Moloney o’ the B Division flyin’ over 
 his shoulder like a man divin’ off the Bull Wall. I 
 declare to me ” 
 
 “I know him well. He used to be a bobby himself 
 133 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 once. His name is Nolan. Gypo Nolan. Didn’t ye 
 ever hear of him?” 
 
 “Sure; usen’t he be pals with Frankie McPhillip 
 that was shot to-day?” 
 
 “Sure I was,” broke in Gypo, overhearing the re- 
 mark; ‘an’ when ye speak o’ the dead, ye might add 
 Lord Have Mercy on him.” 
 
 “Hear, hear,” cried several voices. “Hit him a 
 puck in the jaw. Who is he?” 
 
 A noisy argument and a scuffle arose. The culprit 
 was hustled away, kicked and struck about the face, 
 until he made his escape by running at full speed 
 up the lane. Then they all crowded around Gypo 
 again. 
 
 He stood head and shoulders above them, revelling 
 in the attention he was attracting. He stood so 
 impassively with his arms folded, that he might be 
 mistaken for a great scowling statue at a distance. 
 Then he suddenly raised his right hand and made a 
 circular movement with it. 
 
 “Come on,” he cried wildly. “I’m goin’ to give 
 everybody here a feed. Come on. Come on every 
 mother’s son in this crowd that’s hungry.” 
 
 He waved his arm towards the fried-fish and chip 
 shop and headed off towards the door. 
 
 “Hurrah!” 
 
 “Long life to ye, me darlin’ son of Erin.” 
 
 “More power to yer elbow.” 
 
 “Up the rebels.” 
 
 134 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 Gypo strode in front of the disreputable throng as 
 proud as a king leading his courtiers. They came 
 after him with pattering feet, panting, pushing, 
 snivelling, emitting that variegated murmur of 
 sound that comes from a pack of wild things in a 
 panic, coming from afar, unseen, without a guiding 
 reason. They were the riff-raff and the jetsam of the 
 slums, the most degraded types of those who dwell in 
 the crowded warrens on either bank of the Liffey. 
 But to Gypo they were an audience to acclaim his 
 words and his deeds. 
 
 “Before long ye’ll see me cock o’ the walk around 
 here,” he thought, as he strode into the shop. “Me 
 an’ Gallagher. Come on, every man jack an’ woman 
 too. Come on.” 
 
 They packed the little shop to the door. There 
 was an overflow outside. It was warm within after 
 the drizzling rain and the sharp wind outside. The 
 air within the shop became almost immediately full 
 of the vapour of human breath. The low murmur of 
 breathing could be heard distinctly through the hum 
 of whispered conversation. 
 
 “Hey there, towny,” cried Gypo to the shopkeeper, 
 “chuck us a feed for all hands. I’m payin’ for the 
 lot.” 
 
 The shopkeeper was an Italian, a dark middle-aged 
 fellow with plaintive eyes. He looked at Gypo 
 and then at the crowd. Curiosity, fear, suspicion and 
 surprise raced across his face. Then he smiled and 
 
 135 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 nodded his head. He said something in a foreign 
 language to the girl who stood behind him and then 
 he began immediately to put steaming portions of 
 potatoes and fish into slips of old newspapers that 
 lay ready to hand. The girl, a red-cheeked young 
 woman with big black eyes, dressed in white, busied 
 herself, pushing to and fro on a long arrangement 
 like a sink, more fish and potatoes that were being 
 fried. A crackling noise came from this frying. A 
 hot, sweet and acrid smell permeated the whole room. 
 
 The starved wastrels revelled in that smell. They 
 looked towards the frying food with eager mouths 
 and glistening eyes. Their nostrils smelt its heat and 
 its savour greedily. Their faces were all fierce and 
 emaciated. Their bodies were unkempt, crooked, 
 weazened. But just then, the joy of an unexpected 
 banquet had filled even their haggard and stupefied 
 souls with a pleasure that made them laugh and 
 chatter irresponsibly like children. The sorrows and 
 the miseries of life were forgotten in that moment 
 of common rejoicing. And perhaps that joyous 
 mumble of chattering voices, rising through the steam 
 in that slum eating-house, was a beautiful hymn of 
 praise to the spirit of life. 
 
 And Gypo stood among them like some primeval 
 monster just risen from the slime in which all things 
 had their origin. 
 
 While around him crowded the others, like insects 
 upon which he had been destined to fatten. 
 
 136 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 As he looked about him, with the slow, languorous 
 eye movement of a resting bull, he felt the exaltation 
 and conceit of a conqueror at the hour of victory. 
 An intelligent being, gifted with such strength and 
 the power to analyse his sensations, would have 
 said: “This is the greatest moment of my life.” 
 But Gypo did not think. There was nothing about 
 him in relation to which he could think. A queen 
 will not dream of flaunting her beauty and her 
 raiment at a boors’ banquet. But she will, on a 
 public holiday, bow to their clamorous cheers. So 
 with Gypo. 
 
 The cumbersome mechanism of his mind had been 
 put in motion that evening by the necessity for form- 
 ing a plan after leaving the police-station. The 
 unaccustomed strain had unmoored it. It floundered 
 about until Gallagher’s promise perched it on a 
 foolish eminence whence it regarded the rest of 
 humanity with contempt. It sprawled its ponderous 
 foundations on that crazy eminence as arrogantly as 
 if it were about to rest there for eternity. 
 
 He rolled his eyes about at the heads that were 
 standing thickly around him, some on a level with 
 his biceps, some on a level with his waist, while here 
 and there a tall man like himself, stood with a red, 
 lean, knotted neck strained forward, with throbbing 
 throat, towards the food counter. 
 
 “Biga lot o’ people,” murmured the Italian sud- 
 denly, making a polite gesture with his hands to 
 
 137 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 indicate the number of people present and the nature 
 of his suspicions. 
 
 “That’s all right,” muttered Gypo. “Count ’em as 
 ye hand out the grub. I’ll pay. Don’t you fret 
 yersel’. Keep back there.” 
 
 He had been standing with his palms against the 
 edge of the marble-topped counter. Now, in order 
 to put his hand into his right trousers pocket, he had 
 to pick up a small-sized man and crush him in be- 
 tween two women, who leaned away behind their 
 shawls. Then he thrust his hand into his pocket 
 and fingered the wad of Treasury notes. The very 
 touch of them sent a wave of remembrance through 
 his body. A slight tremor ran up, almost tangibly 
 like a breath of cold wind in a hot place, up the 
 extent of his body until it entered his brain. The 
 remembrance of the origin of that wad of notes 
 staggered him momentarily. He remembered the 
 fat white hand, surmounted by a carefully brushed 
 blue sleeve, that had handed him the wad over a 
 desk, saying ever so icily: “You’ll find twenty 
 pounds there. Go.” 
 
 But after the first shock he curled his thick upper 
 lip slightly and licked it with the tip of his tongue. 
 The movement of his mouth had the appearance of a 
 grin. The girl who happened to glance at him just 
 then, found his gaze centred on her. She dropped 
 the fish slice into the pan with some sort of an 
 exclamation in a foreign language. But Gypo, 
 
 138 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 though he was looking at her, did not see her. He 
 was busy with his clumsy thick fingers, separating a 
 single note from the roll without taking the roll 
 from his pocket. At last he succeeded in doing so. 
 He grunted and pulled out a single Treasury note. 
 
 He held it up. 
 
 “Here ye are,” he cried. “This’ll pay for the lot. 
 Hand out the grub.” 
 
 The Italian smiled immediately and began to serve 
 the packages into the eager hands that reached out 
 for them. He counted out loud as he did so: “One 
 two, three, four . . .” 
 
 An uproar commenced immediately. People 
 crowded in from the door struggling to get served. 
 Those who had been served struggled to get out 
 into the street, with their food in steaming, dripping, 
 paper packages in their hands. Altercations arose. 
 The shop was full of sound. There were catcalls, 
 whistling, cursing and laughing. Then a big docker 
 brought the uproar to a climax by smashing his big 
 boot through the wooden bottom of the counter, 
 uttering a drunken yell as he did so. Then he 
 sprawled over the counter, laughing foolishly and 
 reaching out with his two hands towards the girl 
 who shrank away terrified. The Italian uttered an 
 exclamation of terror. Gypo turned towards the 
 docker, lifted him up by the back and shouted: 
 
 “Keep quiet.” 
 
 The two words re-echoed through the shop, like 
 139 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 two rocks rolled down from opposite precipices and 
 meeting in a glen, with two separate sounds, a heavy- 
 thick sound as they collide, a loud rasping sound 
 as their splintered fragments fly clashing into the 
 air. 
 
 The words had scarcely passed out the door into 
 the night before a silence fell. Everybody stood 
 still. One man stopped in the act of sucking a fish- 
 bone between his lips. 
 
 “Now carry on,” continued Gypo, “but don’t kick 
 up a row like a lot o’ cannibals. Don’t disgrace yer 
 country. A man ud think ye didn’t see a bite for a 
 year.” 
 
 Then he himself turned towards the counter and 
 asked the Italian how many meals had been served. 
 Twenty-four meals had been served. He threw the 
 pound note on the counter. 
 
 “Take out o’ that for three rounds for mesel’,” he 
 said. 
 
 Then he pushed back his hat, drew a paper full of 
 food towards him and began to eat. Without speak- 
 ing, the Italian held the Treasury note between him 
 and the electric light and peered at each side of it 
 several times. Then he nodded his head and opened 
 his till. 
 
 Mulholland had also strained his neck to peer at 
 the Treasury note. He had been standing in the 
 angle of the doorway all the time, silent and immov- 
 able. As soon as he saw the pound note, he drew 
 
 140 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 out into the open and craned over the heads of the 
 people to look at it. A neighbour noticed him, a 
 ragged little fellow, who mistook the cause of Mul- 
 holland’s curiosity. 
 
 “Didn’t ye get any grub?” said the little man to 
 Mulholland. It’s yer own fault if ye didn’t. Come 
 on, man. Don’t stand there hungry. Go on up to 
 the counter.” 
 
 He caught Mulholland by the arm and tried to 
 push him towards the counter. 
 
 “Leave me alone,” hissed Mulholland. “I don’t 
 want any grub. Let go.” 
 
 “Go on up,” pursued the little fellow; “go on, man. 
 Didn’t ye hear him say he was standin’ a round for 
 everybody. Go on up.” 
 
 “Let go, I tell ye. Let go. I don’t want it, I say.” 
 
 But it was no use for Mulholland to refuse. The 
 more he refused the more the little fellow was deter- 
 mined that he should be fed. Others joined in, 
 eager for some amazing reason or other that Mul- 
 holland should be fed. It seemed that they sus- 
 pected something indecent and improper in Mul- 
 holland’s refusal to eat. 
 
 “Call out,” cried somebody, “call out for another 
 ration. Bring it down to him.” 
 
 “Yes, why shouldn’t he have his share as well as 
 the next?” 
 
 “Let me alone,” cried Mulholland in a rage; “let 
 me alone, or I’ll smash yer skull for ye.” 
 
 141 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 That put a different aspect on the question. 
 There were a dozen angry oaths. 
 
 “So that’s what’s the matter with ye. Yer lookin’ 
 for fight, eh?” 
 
 “Stand back an’ let me at him,” cried somebody 
 in the rear, pressing forward. 
 
 Mulholland tried to rush for the door, but they 
 held on to him. 
 
 “What the hell is the matter now?” thundered 
 Gypo, striding over. 
 
 Immediately the scuffling stopped. Gypo came 
 face to face with Mulholland. He saw Mulholland’s 
 little eyes, gleaming and flashing like the eyes of a 
 cat beset by dogs. There was a tense moment during 
 which Gypo struggled with obscure suspicions. 
 But suddenly the expression on Mulholland’s face 
 changed into an expression of cunning' intimacy. 
 His face instead of being fierce and resentful sud- 
 denly seemed to say: “We are members of the 
 Revolutionary Organization, you and I. Get this 
 rabble out of my way.” Gypo immediately remem- 
 bered Gallagher’s promise. He looked at Mulhol- 
 land with a good-natured condescension. “Ha,” he 
 thought, “this fellah’ll be useful.” 
 
 “Let him alone,” he cried arrogantly; “he’s a friend 
 o’ mine. How are ye gettin’ on, Bartly?” 
 
 Then he continued carelessly, to impress the crowd 
 with his own importance and his intimacy with the 
 affairs of the Revolutionary Organization, which was 
 
 142 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 the most impressive thing in the lives of those about 
 him. 
 
 “Hear anythin’ yet about what I was tellin’ ye? 
 I mean about the fellah that informed on Frankie 
 McPhillip?” 
 
 Mulholland was amazed for a moment. What 
 audacity! But it was not audacity. Gypo had 
 completely forgotten the ponderous fellow in the little 
 tattered round hat who had gone into the police- 
 station. His sudden conceit had completely swal- 
 lowed that ponderous fellow. 
 
 “Fie must be drunk,” thought Mulholland. He 
 said aloud, whispering to Gypo, as he bent his head 
 close and turned up his face sideways in his peculiar 
 manner, “I was just passin’ an’ saw ye. I just 
 thought I’d drop in an’ tell ye I’d be there at one 
 o’clock. Ye know where I mean? No, we didn’t 
 hear anythin’ yet about that.” 
 
 He winked his right eye. Gypo winked his right 
 eye and nodded solemnly. Then Mulholland walked 
 quickly out the door, evidently going off somewhere 
 in a hurry. But he halted at the corner of the lane, 
 distended his eyes and gritted his teeth. He rubbed 
 his chin meditatively, looking at the ground. He 
 couldn’t make it out, whatever it was, that was 
 troubling his mind. 
 
 Gypo turned once more to the counter and con- 
 tinued his meal. He ate as if he were about to travel 
 for days and he were deliberately devouring a store 
 
 143 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 of food sufficient to last to the end of the journey. 
 Behind him and on either side of him, they were 
 talking about his strength and praising him, but 
 he paid no heed to them. He was immersed in 
 dreams about his future, now that Gallagher was 
 going to take him back again into the Organization. 
 
 “Aha!” cried an old woman, with watery blue eyes 
 and a wrinkled white face, as she shook her fist up- 
 wards at him, “I wish I had a son like ye. Me own 
 Jimmy, Lord Have Mercy on him, was killed in the 
 big war. He was the boy that could bate the polis! 
 Don’t be talkin’. I seen him wan night an’ it took 
 six o’ them to pull him off a coal cart an’ he holdin’ 
 on to the horse’s reins all the time with wan hand 
 while he was fightin’ them with th’ other.” 
 
 She stamped on the floor and yelled, her eyes 
 gleaming ferociously, as if the contemplation of her 
 dead son’s fight gave her tangible pleasure. Then 
 she walked towards the door, trailing her shawl and 
 her arms with bravado. The poor woman was 
 slightly insane as the result of paralysis. 
 
 A tall, sour-faced, lean man, with a red nose shaped 
 like a reversed scimitar, who had just come in, 
 looked after the old woman and shook his head. He 
 mumbled something under his breath. The old lady 
 halted and looked at him contemptuously. 
 
 “What are ye sniggerin’ at,” she cried, “you with a 
 face like a plate o’ burnt porridge?” 
 
 144 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 There was a loud laugh. 
 
 “Mary Hynes/’ said the hook-nosed man, “if ye 
 were more careful of yer son’s upbringin’ an’ of yer 
 own immortal soul, ye wouldn’t be in the state ye 
 are in now. It it boastin’ of yer son’s lawlessness ye 
 are? Are ye boastin’ of his livin’ crimes an’ he 
 already gone to meet his God?” 
 
 The hook-nosed man raised his right hand dra- 
 matically to point at the ceiling and he glared at the 
 old woman with fierce and menacing sorrow. But 
 his words produced a contrary effect to that which 
 he expected on the old woman. She looked at him 
 contemptuously and then curled her mouth up in 
 anger. 
 
 “Yerrah, d’ye call it a crime to bate a policeman?” 
 she cried in amazed indignation. 
 
 “Certainly it is a crime,” cried the hook-nosed 
 man. 
 
 “Damn an’ blast it, what are ye talkin’ about, 
 Boxer Lydon?” cried a burly fellow coming up to 
 Lydon and staring him excitedly and angrily in the 
 face. “Didn’t ye hear of what the polis did to-day to 
 Frankie McPhillip? D’ye call it a crime to bate that 
 murderin’ lot? Aye or shoot them either!” 
 
 “I don’t say they were justified in what they did 
 to-day,” cried Lydon, raising his voice to a querulous 
 shout in order to drown the uproar; “but neither will 
 I say that the dead man was justified in what he done. 
 
 145 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 Do none o’ ye think o’ the man McPhillip killed? 
 Wasn’t he a fellow-man like yersel’? Wasn’t he an 
 Irishman of the same flesh an’ blood?” 
 
 “Aw! that’s nationalism/’ cried somebody. 
 “What’s an Irishman no more than a Turk? Ye 
 belong to the I. R. B., an’ that’s where ye get yer 
 lingo. Up the workers!” 
 
 The hook-nosed man paused with his hand raised 
 until the interrupter finished. Then he continued 
 unmoved: 
 
 “Do none o’ ye think that maybe that man left a 
 mother an’ a ” 
 
 But he had to stop. His voice was drowned in the 
 uproar and the scuffling. The old woman began to 
 sing “Kelly the boy from Killane/’ as she strolled out 
 the door. Another man was pushing his way in 
 through the crowd at the door towards the hook- 
 nosed man. This new-comer had been standing at 
 the door for some time. He was dressed from head 
 to foot in a heavy black overcoat. He was better 
 dressed than everybody present, but he looked as pale 
 and haggard as the others. His face continually 
 twitched and his eyes were bloodshot. He looked at 
 the hook-nosed man fiercely and seized him ner- 
 vously by the buttonhole. The hook-nosed man 
 edged away. 
 
 “For God’s sake, let up on that rubbish,” cried the 
 new-comer, stammering at each word. His upper 
 lip was contorting as if he were in a fit. 
 
 146 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 “Let me go,” cried the hook-nosed man. “I’ll 
 have my say, an’ I won’t be intimidated by any 
 Socialist agitator. Keep back from me.” 
 
 “I only wanted to tell ye,” shouted the other, “I 
 only wanted to tell ye ... I say ... I say . . .” 
 
 Then nothing could be distinguished above the up- 
 roar. Everybody present took part in the argument. 
 The ragged fellows who had come in with Gypo, 
 curiously enough, took no interest in the argument. 
 Those of them that had not already disappeared 
 as soon as they got their food, now took their leave 
 when the argument began. There was even a look of 
 fear in their faces as they slunk away, as if this 
 demonstration of interest in the affairs of the world 
 terrified them, who had no interest in anything, since 
 their souls were numbed by the hopelessness of 
 despair. Only a few of the most wretched remained, 
 crouching against the counter, in the comforting 
 shadow of Gypo’s immensity. They remained be- 
 cause the presence of his powerful personality 
 comforted them and gave them the imaginary feeling 
 of having something to protect them from the menace 
 of civilized life. 
 
 Those that were now taking part in the argument 
 were of a better class. They were workers of all 
 sorts, members of trade unions and respectable peo- 
 ple. They had appeared somehow, one by one but 
 rapidly, in that mysterious way in which crowds of 
 people of a certain type gather in the Titt Street dis- 
 
 147 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 trict and carry on an argument with furious heat. 
 
 Gypo suddenly turned around and looked at the 
 wrangling group, at the open mouths, the listening 
 ears, the distorted faces, the glittering eyes. He lis- 
 tened. He blinked. Then he laughed softly within 
 himself. He felt a crazy desire to yell and fall on 
 them with his fists. The mixed murmur of their 
 agitated voices had a maddening effect on him. But 
 he looked back at the counter. He still had food 
 to eat. He continued his meal. The argument 
 went on. 
 
 The man with the long overcoat who had just 
 arrived held the attention of the crowd. He was a 
 well-known man in the district and all over the city. 
 He owned a small tobacconist and newsvendor’s 
 shop. He was called The Crank Shanahan and in- 
 deed he was a crank. He belonged to no organiza- 
 tion, he went about alone, he attended every political 
 meeting in the city and he was continually, in all 
 weathers, agitating and preaching in a Joud shrill 
 voice his own peculiar philosophy of social life. 
 That philosophy was a mixture of all sorts of politi- 
 cal creeds, but its main basis was revolt against 
 every existing institution, habit or belief. He was 
 called an anarchist, but he was not an anarchist. He 
 was just a fanatic who was dissatisfied with life. At 
 night he was given to fearfully morbid thoughts that 
 caused him to lock and bar himself in his room and 
 sleep with the blankets right over his head. He was 
 
 148 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 even supposed to put cotton-wool into his ears at 
 night lest he might hear a sound. And once the 
 policeman on duty found him wandering around the 
 street in which he lived, at three o’clock in the morn- 
 ing, dressed in a torn nightshirt, trembling and 
 gnashing his teeth with terror. He had jumped up 
 horrified by a nightmare and rushed out in that 
 state. 
 
 “Listen,” he cried. “I don’t agree with the Revo- 
 lutionary Organization, but the man that killed Mc- 
 Phillip . . . no . . . no, no ... I mean the man 
 . . . can’t ye let me speak? . . . I mean the farm er 
 that McPhillip killed, he was an agent of the capital- 
 ist class. Then it follows logically that he was an 
 enemy of the working class. McPhillip was an agent 
 of the working class. He was justified in killing the 
 man. That’s the matter treated logically and 
 brought to a logical conclusion. Everything must 
 be approached logically. Listen. Taking the ques- 
 tion from a wider standpoint we can get a broader 
 judgment that will fit all cases of the kind that may 
 arise” — he raised his voice to a scream to drown the 
 noise of a scuffle at the door — “in the near future. 
 We are at the base of a world revolutionary wave. 
 According as that wave advances and gathers 
 strength the whole process of capitalist society will 
 crumble up. Then there will be a gradual increase 
 in the number of these skirmishes, as it were on 
 the . . .» 
 
 149 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 His voice was drowned suddenly by a big man who 
 began to swing his arms about his head uttering a 
 fearful torrent of oaths. He was drunk. Then 
 Lydon shouted: 
 
 “Murder is murder, I say. Murder is always 
 murder and the gospel of Our Lord Jesus Christ 
 says ” 
 
 “There must be no mercy,” yelled a little man 
 with a black moustache, who rushed into a corner 
 where he had room to prance about. “There must 
 be no mercy. To hell with everybody. That right, 
 boys? Wha’?” 
 
 “What are ye talkin’ about?” cried Gypo, sud- 
 denly turning about. 
 
 Silence fell immediately. Everybody looked at 
 him. His face was perspiring. He rubbed his 
 hands on his chest. He curled up his lips. He gave 
 his little hat a slight push towards the back of his 
 head. 
 
 Then he was seized by another fit of strange 
 humour. He yelled once more and staggered to- 
 wards the crowd, with his arms hanging loose, pre- 
 tending to be dead drunk. They fell away from him 
 in amazement. He stood in the middle of the room 
 and looked about him. 
 
 “What ye talkin’ about?” he drawled ponderously, 
 swaying backwards and forwards. 
 
 He glared from face to face, but each pair of eyes 
 was turned away as he sought them. He was de- 
 
 ISO 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 lighted with the terror he caused. Behind the 
 counter the Italian, still smiling, had grasped a large 
 knife and stood perfectly still. The girl was crouch- 
 ing on the floor. Then Gypo broke into a loud laugh, 
 stuck his hands in his trousers pockets and strolled 
 towards the door. 
 
 He hesitated for a moment outside the door. 
 Then he headed straight across the road. They all 
 ran to the door to look after him. His huge long 
 frame, clad in blue dungarees that clung to his thighs, 
 shone in the light of the lamps as he crossed the 
 wide road, one foot advancing past the other slowly, 
 the trousers brushing with the sound of hay being 
 cut with a scythe. Then the figure left the area of 
 light and grew dim as he gained the pavement at 
 the far side, and turned to the left under the shadow 
 of an abrupt tall house. Then he fell away into the 
 night. 
 
 Presently a lean slouching figure crept across the 
 street in pursuit. He also disappeared under the 
 shadow of the abrupt house. Nobody noticed him. 
 It was Mulholland tracking Gypo. 
 
 151 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 A round the corner Gypo halted. He put 
 his hand against the wall behind him and 
 stood motionless, with his head turned back, 
 listening. He had heard a step following him. But 
 the steps halted also. He listened for several seconds 
 breathlessly and heard nothing further. Then he 
 snorted and turned his head slowly to his front. 
 He looked ahead into the darkness, dreamily. He 
 stood perfectly still. 
 
 Then his face broke slowly into a sort of smile and 
 his eyes grew dim. He trembled slightly. He 
 glanced about him sharply and furtively several 
 times. There was a strange, almost mysterious 
 “significance” in his movements, slight, sudden, fur- 
 tive movements. 
 
 Then he stared steadily down along the dark, 
 narrow street that stretched ahead of him, ending at 
 the far end in a high wall, with a dim lamp at one 
 corner suggesting that another street branched off 
 it to the left. He winked his right eye at the lamp 
 and a roguish expression creased his face as he 
 did so. 
 
 “Why not,” he muttered aloud. “Why shouldn’t 
 152 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 I go an’ have a bit o’ fun? Wha’? A few bob on 
 the women an’ a few drinks to keep me supper 
 warm.” 
 
 A wave of passion surged through his body. He 
 was on the point of opening his mouth to utter a yell, 
 but instead he thrust his hand into his trousers 
 pocket anxiously and groped for his wad of money. 
 He found it. He sighed easily. 
 
 “They might have pinched it,” he muttered with a 
 look of gravity in his little eyes. “That mob around 
 there are a lot o’ wasters. Ye couldn’t trust yer shirt 
 with ’em on a winter’s night. They’d take the char- 
 ley from under a pope’s bed. Terrible lot o’ 
 criminals around lately.” 
 
 Then his face lit up with eagerness as his mind 
 swerved back again to the contemplation of that 
 lamp at the far end . . . and where that street led. 
 He swallowed his breath with a loud noise and set 
 out towards the lamp. 
 
 Almost immediately a head peered around the 
 corner behind him. The head watched until Gypo 
 turned to the left at the far end past the lamp. 
 Then a man darted around the corner and raced 
 down the street in pursuit. It was Mulholland 
 tracking Gypo. 
 
 When Gypo turned to the left past the lamp he 
 came into a narrow street in which there were no 
 houses. On the right-hand side there was a high 
 wall, like a barrack wall. It enclosed a big goods 
 
 153 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 yard belonging to a manufactory, where mineral 
 waters or something of that kind were made. On 
 the other side of the street there was no wall at all. 
 The foundations of houses still remained. Here and 
 there, a doorway, a chimney stack, or the brick 
 framework of a window, stood up in a ghastly 
 fashion. Beyond that there was an open space full 
 of refuse, mounds of earth, bricks, pots, old clothes. 
 The street itself was a network of puddles. In order 
 to avoid wetting himself to the knees, Gypo had to 
 walk along the sloping bank of clay where the houses 
 had crumbled. 
 
 It was a dreary sight. It almost shouted its ex- 
 periences, and if it had shouted, it would have talked 
 in that endless, loud, babbling scream in which 
 maniacs and demented creatures utter their words. 
 It was alive in that peculiar way in which ruins are 
 alive at night, when the earth is covered with dark- 
 ness and the living sleep. 
 
 But Gypo was not sensitive. For him, the street, 
 with its dirt and its squalor, was a savage sauce to 
 whet his appetite for the riotous feast of . . . He 
 strode rapidly. He jumped from mound to mound, 
 now slipping with a curse, now catching a loose 
 brick in some piece of wall to steady himself. Now 
 and again he heard a “hist” from the opposite wall 
 of the street, where some woman, old and decrepit, 
 sought the darkness so that her ravaged figure might 
 escape the drunken eyes of some passionate fellow 
 
 154 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 seeking a fool’s pleasure. These noises, croaks ut- 
 tered by damned souls, sounds so tremendously 
 horrid to the innocent mind, made no impression on 
 Gypo. To him they were merely noises, expressions 
 of everyday life. 
 
 Once he recognized one of the women who took a 
 pace forward from her position and put a wrinkled 
 hand to her brow to look at him. 
 
 “Ho! Blast yer sowl, Maggie Casey,” he mut- 
 tered, “aren’t ye dead yet?” 
 
 He chuckled with laughter as he heard her blas- 
 phemous rejoinder. 
 
 As he approached the far end of the street the 
 silence lessened. He heard whisperings and mur- 
 murs, snatches of distant song, sounds of footfalls, 
 strains of music. These sounds acted on him like 
 battle-cries. He almost broke into a run as he came 
 gradually nearer to the volume of sound. At last he 
 dashed under an old archway and he was in the next 
 street. The medley of sound was all about him. 
 On his left-hand side stretched the long, low streets 
 of brothels, entwined like webwork among the ruins 
 of what was once a resort of the nobility of eigh- 
 teenth-century Dublin. 
 
 He was in a narrow street of two-storied houses, 
 low houses with green Venetian blinds on the windows 
 of some of them, their street doors opened wide, 
 lights in all the front, ground-floor windows. But 
 the street itself was in darkness on account of the 
 
 155 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 drizzling rain. An odd woman flitted along. A few 
 men walked about uncertainly. The street had a 
 gloomy deserted look. But from the houses a med- 
 ley of joyous sound issued. 
 
 Gypo looked on for a moment excitedly. Then he 
 walked down the street slowly, examining each house 
 as he passed. He knew Katie Fox was by now at 
 Biddy Burke’s. He wanted to avoid Biddy Burke’s. 
 Biddy Burke’s house was over on the other side. 
 He didn’t want to go there to-night. It was only a 
 poor place, used by revolutionaries and criminals of 
 the working-class type. The women there were an 
 ugly, ill-dressed, whisky-drinking lot. He was well 
 known there. He knew all the women. There was 
 only Guinness’s stout on sale and even that was so 
 diluted and ghastly that it was like drinking castor 
 oil. The more a man drank of it the thirstier he 
 became. A shilling a drink for poison like that! 
 
 Yah! Away with Biddy Burke and Katie Fox 
 and Sligo Cissie and the rest of them! To-night he 
 wanted to go somewhere where he was not known. 
 He wanted to go among beautiful women. Strange, 
 beautiful women clothed in silk! Mad women! 
 Women with dark, flashing eyes and sharp, white 
 teeth! Huh! He wanted to go mad. It was a mad 
 night. There was fire in his blood. His hands 
 wanted to rip mountains. He would swallow tank- 
 ards of drink. He would drain this vast reservoir of 
 strength from his body. He must or he would burst. 
 
 156 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 Already he felt a desire to beat his head against 
 walls. 
 
 For six months he had been walking about a beg- 
 gar, cut off from pleasure, subject to Katie Fox’s 
 charity. Phew! She was no longer attractive to 
 him, that bag of bones who thought of nothing but 
 dope. 
 
 Suddenly, without thinking, breathing heavily, 
 flushed, excited like a man inhaling chloroform, he 
 staggered through a doorway. He stood in a long, 
 dark hall. He could hear laughter and drunken sing- 
 ing coming from his right, a few yards down the hall, 
 from behind a door through which a glint of light 
 came. He strode to the door. He tried to lift the 
 latch and walk in, but the door was bolted. Almost 
 instantly the sounds ceased. He kicked at the bot- 
 tom of the door with his boot several times. 
 
 “Who’s that?” came a woman’s voice angrily. 
 
 “Open the door an’ find out,” answered Gypo in a 
 shout. 
 
 “Wait a minute, Betty,” came a husky man’s 
 voice; “lemme out.” 
 
 There was shuffling and whispering. 
 
 “Keep well behind it,” said somebody else. 
 
 Then the bolt was withdrawn. The latch was 
 lifted carefully. The door opened slowly about three 
 inches. Gypo watched these proceedings nervously 
 and angrily. 
 
 “Come on, come on,” he cried at last, “what’s all 
 157 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 this monkey trickin’ about? Why don’t ye open the 
 door wide and take yer mug outa the way?” 
 
 The man suddenly slipped outside the door like a 
 cat. With his back to the door and his right hand 
 bulging in his coat pocket he faced Gypo. He was a 
 stocky, bulgy fellow, with a criminal face. He had 
 rushed out with the intention of giving Gypo a 
 thrashing with the “blackjack” that was concealed on 
 his person, but when he saw the kind of customer 
 with whom he had to deal his jaw dropped. Gypo 
 gazed at the fellow angrily. 
 
 “So you’re the pimp,” he gurgled ferociously. 
 
 He took a little hurried breath, shot out his right 
 hand and seized the pimp by the throat. The pimp 
 gasped. His right hand dropped the “blackjack.” 
 He reached up with his two hands to grip the giant 
 hand that held his throat. 
 
 “Lemme go,” he screamed. 
 
 But Gypo contemptuously hurled him away from 
 the door and sent him sprawling along the hall into 
 the darkness. Then he sent the door flying open 
 with a push of his shoulder and strode blinking into 
 the room. 
 
 The room was crowded with people. It was very 
 large. It had a stone floor and a wide, open hearth 
 where an immense turf fire was blazing in a huge 
 grate, with steaming kettles on either side, on the 
 hobs. There was a dresser loaded with shining 
 Delftware of all colours. The ceiling was high and 
 
 158 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 white-washed. The walls were covered with pictures 
 of women, in amorous postures and in the varying 
 degrees of nakedness that might be expected to 
 arouse libidinous desires in the minds of all types of 
 men. Everything in the room was spotlessly clean, 
 but the air was warm and heavy, due to the rather 
 intense heat of the fire and the combined odour of 
 perfume and of alcohol. 
 
 This heavy, languorous odour exalted Gypo. He 
 rolled his eyes round the room, drawing in a deep 
 breath through his expanded nostrils. Everybody 
 was looking at him. There were eight men present, 
 three students from the University, an artist, a 
 doctor and three young gentleman farmers, up from 
 the country “on a tear.” They had hired the brothel 
 for the night and ordered the proprietress to admit 
 nobody; but they did not take umbrage at Gypo’s 
 appearance. They were just at that moment in the 
 delicious stage of intoxication when the most strange 
 incidents become normal and welcome, to minds that 
 are cloyed with alcohol fumes and the contemplation 
 of bodily pleasures. The scuffle outside the door 
 and the manner of Gypo’s entrance made no impres- 
 sion on them. His appearance, huge, towering, in a 
 suit of dungarees, with his little round hat perched 
 on his massive skull, intrigued them with a feeling 
 that this was some new kind of pleasure provided 
 for their entertainment. They looked at him, half 
 laughing, half serious, with that dim and distant look 
 
 159 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 in their eyes that comes with the initial stages of 
 drunkenness. 
 
 The women, on the other hand, looked at Gypo 
 with disfavour. There were ten of them present. 
 Some of them were almost nude and in various stages 
 of intoxication, sitting on the men’s knees, with 
 glasses in their hands and cigarettes in their mouths. 
 Others sat solemnly on their chairs dressed for the 
 street, as if they had just dropped in on their way 
 somewhere. Their hard faces set in a scowl when 
 they saw Gypo. He was dressed like a workman. 
 Therefore he had no money. Therefore they scowled 
 at him. This was an “upper-class” brothel. All the 
 women here were “ladies.” Their “class” instincts 
 were aroused by his wretched clothes and his un- 
 couth features. 
 
 One woman alone took no notice of him whatso- 
 ever. She sat in a corner, reading a newspaper, with 
 her legs crossed, a cigarette between her lips, a 
 fashionable short fur coat wrapped around her. 
 Gypo’s eyes wandered around the room until they 
 rested on her. There they remained. 
 
 “What d’ye want?”, cried a harsh voice behind 
 him. 
 
 Gypo turned. The proprietress of the brothel was 
 standing beside the door. Her left hand was on her 
 breast fingering a little silver crucifix that was sus- 
 pended from her neck by a black velvet cord. Her 
 right hand rested on the door, a short, white, fat 
 
 160 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 hand, as if she were waiting until Gypo went out so 
 as to shut the door again. She was a small, fat 
 woman of middle age, with a huge head of devilishly 
 black hair, arranged in towering fashion, with a 
 glittering black comb stuck in the rear of the pile. 
 Her hair was the la't remains of her beauty. The 
 remainder of her hiad had been coarsened by the 
 odious nature of her pursuits. Her face was 
 blotched, wrinkled and pale. Her eyes were yellow, 
 hard, sunken and bloodshot. Her mouth was drawn 
 together as if some clumsy fellow had tried to stitch 
 the lips and made a bad job of it. She was 
 dressed in a blue skirt and a white blouse. The 
 blouse sleeves were rolled almost up to her shoulders 
 showing a tremendously fat pair of arms. They 
 called her Aunt Betty and she was known all over 
 the district for her cunning, her meanness and the 
 peculiar habit she had, perhaps in the middle of a 
 conversation, of suddenly uttering a coarse expres- 
 sion, grasping her breasts and staring about her wild- 
 eyed, as if she were afraid of some dread spectre 
 being in pursuit of her. 
 
 Gypo did not know her, because her place was 
 fashionable, frequented only by well-to-do people, 
 business men, army officers and students who had 
 money to spend. Gypo only knew the cheaper 
 brothels, places that were used as “friendly houses” 
 by revolutionaries, criminals and working men. On 
 any other night he would never think of entering the 
 
 161 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 place, no more than a man in overalls would think of 
 taking a seat in the stalls of a London theatre. But 
 to-night he had transcended himself. He looked at 
 Aunt Betty arrogantly with his lower lip hanging. 
 
 “I want a drink,” he replied gruffly, in a low voice. 
 Then he added after a pause with a sudden hoarse 
 chuckle, “an’ anythin’ else that's goin’.” 
 
 “Ye can’t get a drink here, ’ said Aunt Betty. 
 “You better be going somewhere else. You’re 
 wasting your time here, my good man.” 
 
 Aunt Betty spoke in a state of great excitement. 
 This was habitual with her, owing to the terrific strain 
 it caused her to try to effect the correct pronuncia- 
 tion of her words and “the educated accent of a 
 woman of good family.” For she always tried to 
 speak like a lady. 
 
 Gypo took no notice of her, or of the pimp who had 
 again entered the room and now stood against the 
 wall, with his terror-stricken eyes gleaming and his 
 face livid with malice. 
 
 “Here,” he cried, “ give everybody a drink. I’m 
 callin’ a drink for the house.” 
 
 He thrust his hand into his pocket, pulled out the 
 roll of notes and separated one, which he held out to 
 Aunt Betty. It was like the performance of a mira- 
 cle. Aunt Betty’s eyes sparkled. She advanced 
 almost unconsciously, laughing with her thin, hard 
 lips, while her eyes gleamed with avarice. Her 
 
 162 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 fingers almost trembled as she took the note slowly. 
 Feverishly, she examined it under the light. Gypo 
 laughed as she did so and gave her a loud, hearty 
 smack on the back, with horrid familiarity. She 
 merely nudged him playfully in response. The note 
 was genuine and had passed her scrutiny. She 
 sighed and cracked her fingers towards the pimp. 
 
 “Glasses all round,” she said. 
 
 There was a little thrill of applause from the 
 throats of the women as soon as they saw that his 
 money was genuine. Some of those who were sitting 
 alone, dressed for the street, got up and approached 
 him, uttering laughing endearments. Even the 
 women who were already engaged, sitting on the 
 knees of the men, slightly tipsy, sobered up and be- 
 came contemplative and sulkily jealous of those 
 women who were free to capture Gypo and his wad 
 of Treasury notes. 
 
 The men, on the other hand, now regarded him 
 with hostility, jealous of the attraction he held for 
 the women. 
 
 Only one person in the room took absolutely no 
 notice of the whole proceedings. That was the 
 woman in the fur coat, who sat in the corner to the 
 right of the fire, reading the newspaper. 
 
 And Gypo, disregarding the soft, naked arms that 
 attempted to embrace him and the amorous, sensu- 
 ous faces, that were turned up to his on all sides and 
 
 163 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 the soft, seductive, sibilant whispers that were ut- 
 tered at him, kept his eyes towards the indifferent 
 woman in the corner fixedly. 
 
 “Keep out of me way,” he muttered. 
 
 He pushed the girls away from him, strode over to 
 the corner and stood beside the mysterious one. He 
 stood over her, breathing heavily, looking down at 
 her. She glanced at his knees from under her eye- 
 lids. Then she puffed at her cigarette, flicked some- 
 thing off her sleeve with her thumb and forefinger 
 and went on reading her newspaper. The other 
 women looked on silently with narrowed eyes. The 
 men began to smile. Everybody was interested in 
 what the fur-coated woman would do. 
 
 Gypo sat down beside her. He sat on the floor 
 with his back to the wall. 
 
 “Aren’t ye hot wearin’ that fur coat?” he said. 
 
 She did not reply. There was a titter from the 
 women. 
 
 “What’s all the news in the paper about?” con- 
 tinued Gypo. 
 
 The woman did not reply. One of the men burst 
 into laughter, making a sound like an explosion, as 
 if his mouth had been full of laughter a long time 
 and it suddenly burst out. 
 
 “Horrid man! Go ’way,” said somebody else, 
 mimicking the voice of a timid and refined woman. 
 
 Gypo’s face darkened and his throat veins swelled 
 ominously. But just then the drinks arrived. He 
 
 164 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 jumped to his feet and rushed over to the pimp who 
 was carrying them. He drained one glass of whisky, 
 then another, then another. An outcry arose. 
 
 “Hey, don’t drink the lot.” 
 
 “Savage.” 
 
 “What d’ye mean by callin’ a drink for us an’ then 
 swallowin’ ’em all yoursel’?” 
 
 “Hey! Stop him, Johnny. Take the tray away 
 from him.” 
 
 “You all go to the divil,” gasped Gypo. The 
 whisky rushing down his throat had taken his breath 
 away. “Wait there. There’s lots more.” 
 
 He pulled out another pound note and tossed it to 
 Aunt Betty carelessly. 
 
 “There ye are,” he cried, “go an’ get more drinks.” 
 
 Then amid the delighted yells of the girls he 
 drained three more glasses one after the other, each 
 one at a gulp, while the women danced around him. 
 
 Suddenly the whole company went into a state of 
 mad excitement. Human beings always respond in 
 that way to the mysterious influence of a fresh and 
 dominant personality, who, with a word, a gesture, a 
 shout, turns a solemn and bored gathering into an 
 almost Bacchanalian party. It seemed that all the 
 people in the room had only awaited the arrival of 
 Gypo to abandon themselves completely to an orgy 
 of mad behaviour. Shouts, shrieks, smacking kisses, 
 laughter, mingled chaotically in the warm air of 
 the room. Each of the men vied with his neighbours 
 
 165 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 in an exaggerated attempt to make a fool of himself. 
 A young man with an innocent, red face and beauti- 
 ful grey eyes, a student, stood up precariously in 
 front of the fire, laughing incontinently and began 
 to strip himself naked. Another man, a big fellow, 
 seized a girl in his arms, tumbled with her to the 
 floor and lay there shouting and trying to kiss her, 
 while she struggled to free her loosened hair from 
 beneath his shoulder. Gypo picked up two women 
 and perched them one on each shoulder. Then he 
 seized two others round the waist, raised them from 
 the ground under his arms and began to jump into 
 the air, yelling like a bull with each jump, while his 
 fluttering, half-naked cargo of women laughed hys- 
 terically as they dangled about him. 
 
 This amazing scene lasted fully a quarter of an 
 hour and then ended suddenly. Everybody seemed 
 to be exhausted. It was only then that Aunt Betty’s 
 voice was heard above the uproar. 
 
 “Do ye want to get me run in be the police?” she 
 cried. 
 
 “It’s all right, mother,” said Gypo, going up to her 
 and putting his arm around her waist. “Yer a nice 
 girl. I’ll keep order here for ye. Now who is 
 kickin’ up a row? The next fellah that speaks above 
 a whisper I’ll open his skull for him.” 
 
 “Would you, though?” cried the young man who 
 was stripping himself naked. He stood in front of 
 the fire in his trousers and underwear with his shirt 
 
 166 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 in his hand. “I’ll teach you manners, my good fel- 
 low,” he continued, pulling up his trousers and bran- 
 dishing his shirt. “Come on. I’ll teach you how to 
 behave yourself in the presence of gentlemen.” 
 
 But somebody pulled him on to a settee before he 
 could do anything. Gypo looked at him for a mo- 
 ment and then he laughed. His eyes were gleaming. 
 The quantity of whisky he had drunk was coursing 
 through his head and his limbs as if it were being 
 pumped methodically by a machine. He released 
 Aunt Betty and took a pace towards the centre of the 
 floor. Then he shivered all over and gasped for 
 breath. He broke into a laugh. He walked over to 
 the fur-coated woman without looking in her direc- 
 tion. He stooped down, put his arms about her, 
 lifted her up until her face was level with his and he 
 kissed her. His clumsy lips met her right cheek. 
 They groped about for her mouth, but they could not 
 reach it on account of her frantic efforts to free her- 
 self. He lost his balance and let her down to the 
 floor. He regained his balance, laughing heavily and 
 wiping his mouth on his sleeve. 
 
 There was an intense silence. The woman stood in 
 front of him erect and trembling. She held her 
 hands rigid by her sides, with the long, slender fingers 
 bent backwards. She was dressed in excellent taste, 
 black shoes, navy-blue skirt, short fur coat, small, 
 black hat, from under whose brim brown curls pro- 
 truded. She was a handsome woman, a beautiful 
 
 167 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 woman, but for her face. The left side of her face 
 was disfigured in a ghastly way from the temple to 
 the jaw. So that one cheek was white and the other 
 almost black. The left eye was darkened and al- 
 most sightless, while the right eye was blue, clear and 
 gleaming with anger. The disfigurement touched 
 the corner of her mouth. The remainder of the 
 mouth was red-lipped, arched and beautiful. 
 
 Suddenly, she bared her white teeth and spat at 
 Gypo with the ferocity of a wild animal. 
 
 He shivered. His hands clawed up. His face 
 contorted and he swivelled his head on his neck from 
 left to right and back again, like a ram that is going 
 to charge an enemy. A woman near the fire gasped 
 with horror. But Gypo did not attack. Instead of 
 advancing on the woman he took a pace to his rear 
 and let his breath out through his nostrils with a 
 great noise. Then he stood motionless, with his eyes 
 distended, staring at the infuriated woman in awe 
 and wonder. She was staring at him with her eyes 
 almost closed. 
 
 “You pig,” she gasped. 
 
 There was a painful silence. Each person in the 
 room felt sure that a catastrophe was imminent. 
 The fact that the room, a few minutes before, had 
 been full of the sound of libidinous revelry made the 
 silence all the more terrible. Everybody watched 
 Gypo. His huge body, monstrous with strange 
 movement, stood under the glare of the lamp that 
 
 168 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 hung from the ceiling. His face, staring steadily at 
 the woman, changed again and again, in response to 
 the dark and mysterious suggestions that chased one 
 another through his mind. At one moment his chest 
 would heave and his limbs would stiffen. Then his 
 breath would come out with a snap. His jaws would 
 set. His eyes would expand. A movement would 
 begin in his throat. Then a sound like a curtailed 
 snort would come from his nostrils. 
 
 At last, after waiting for twenty seconds, the spec- 
 tators were startled by the unexpected outcome of 
 these movements. Gypo broke into a roar of laugh- 
 ter. He raised his head and laughed at the ceiling. 
 Everybody gaped at him in fright. All gaped at 
 him, terrified, except the woman. As if in response 
 to his laughter, laughter broke from her lips too, 
 but it was the shrill, thin laughter of hysteria, that 
 made her eyes glitter coldly. 
 
 Breaking off in the middle of his laugh, Gypo 
 strode over to Aunt Betty. He took her by the arm, 
 pointed his finger at the woman in the fur coat and 
 whispered hoarsely: 
 
 “I want her. Get me a room. I want to take her 
 upstairs. Ye can have whatever money ye ask.” 
 
 “Never,” shrieked the woman in the fur coat. 
 
 She put her hands to her face. Then she took a 
 tiny step forward with her right foot and stood lean- 
 ing on the foot, trembling as if she had planted it 
 on ice. 
 
 169 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 “None of this nonsense, Phyllis,” said Aunt Betty, 
 coming forward to the centre of the room. She 
 faced the fur-coated woman with her arms akimbo 
 and her jaws squared. “I’m fed up with your 
 swagger. You’re no better than yer board and lodg- 
 ing, an’ as long as I keep you, you’re no better than 
 any other woman that takes bite and sup in my 
 house. Put that in your pipe and smoke it. One 
 man is as good as another. You’re going with him.” 
 
 “That’s true, Aunt Betty,” cried several women, 
 looking with hatred at the fur-coated woman. 
 
 “Rabble,” shrieked the fur-coated woman, stamp- 
 ing her feet and shaking her fists all round her at the 
 women. “What filthy souls you have to be reduced 
 to this level. I’m not a prostitute like you and that’s 
 why you hate me. You hate me because I’m an edu- 
 cated woman and ” 
 
 “It’s nothin’ o’ the kind,” cried a big, large-boned, 
 red-faced, strong, handsome woman, called Conne- 
 mara Maggie. “We hate ye because yer a stuck-up, 
 ignorant thing, that thinks she’s better than what 
 God turned her into; an’ God forgive me for 
 sayin’ so ” 
 
 “More power to ye, Maggie,” interrupted several, 
 “tell her yer mind.” 
 
 “I don’t mind what you say, Connemara Maggie,” 
 gasped the fur-coated one. “You’re not the worst 
 of them and ” 
 
 170 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 “Good God,” shouted Aunt Betty, suddenly put- 
 ting her hands to her breasts. 
 
 She backed to the wall, staring furtively at the 
 fur-coated woman. She was in the power of one of 
 her “visions.” Gypo stared at the woman in the fur 
 coat with his arms hanging loosely by his sides. 
 
 “Listen,” continued the woman, “I don’t bear any 
 of you any malice. You can’t help it, any of you. 
 I don’t bear even you any malice, Aunt Betty. 
 I know very well that were it not for you I would 
 starve or . . . or be in a worse place. I have been 
 in your house a month now and you’ve been kind 
 to me. I know very well nobody can help any- 
 thing. I’m English, an army officer’s wife, so it’s 
 only natural that you girls would be prejudiced 
 against me ” 
 
 “It’s nothing o’ the kind,” cried Connemara 
 Maggie; “it’s yer stuck-up ways that ” 
 
 “Let her have her say, Maggie,” cried another. 
 
 “I had no right to come in here,” cried the woman, 
 bursting into tears. “I should have gone to the 
 police and got them ” 
 
 “The police!” yelled Gypo suddenly, starting as if 
 he had been awakened from his sleep. “None o’ 
 that talk. Keep away from the police. What d’ye 
 want the police for?” 
 
 “I want to get back home,” sobbed the woman. 
 
 “Where’s yer home?” 
 
 171 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 “It’s . . . it’s near London.” 
 
 “Well, what are ye doin’ over here then?” 
 
 “I got this,” cried the woman, becoming hysterical 
 again. She put a trembling hand to her disfigured 
 cheek. “I got this a year ago. It’s driven me mad. 
 My husband took another woman. I sold every- 
 thing I had and came over to Dublin. I wanted to 
 go to work. Honest to God, I did. But I could get 
 nothing. Then a man brought me down here. 
 Good God, the shame of telling you all this in a place 
 like this . . . the . . 
 
 “D’ye want to go home now?” cried Gypo angrily. 
 
 She did not reply, but looked at him with large 
 eyes, as if in amazement. 
 
 “What’ll bring ye home?” he continued. “How 
 much will it cost?” 
 
 “A little over two pounds,” she replied in a low 
 voice. 
 
 “Here,” he cried, taking out his money, “here’s 
 yer fare. One, two, three,” he paused and was go- 
 ing to add a fourth, but he put it back. He handed 
 her the three notes. She shrank backwards, look- 
 ing at the money with large eyes. 
 
 “Don’t be afraid,” he said in a strange, dreamy 
 voice. “Take the money an’ get outa here. That’s 
 enough to take ye home. Go back home. Yer not 
 wanted here. You an’ yer husband and the police. 
 Ye better keep away from the police, I’m tellin’ ye. 
 Go on. Beat it. Get outa here.” 
 
 172 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 Staring him in the face, trembling, with her mouth 
 open, she seized the notes suddenly. Then utter- 
 ing an exclamation, she looked about her once and 
 rushed to the door. 
 
 “Go off now,” cried Gypo after her. “Go off 
 now.” 
 
 Everybody stared at the door through which she 
 disappeared, banging it after her. There was si- 
 lence. Then Aunt Betty spoke: 
 
 “That’s all very well,” she sniggered; “but she 
 owes me two pound ten. Who’s goin’ to pay me 
 that? It’s all very well doin’ the ” 
 
 “Shut up yer gob,” cried Gypo, “here’s two pound 
 for ye. That’s enough. Not another word outa 
 ye.” He threw two pound notes at her. Then he 
 threw out his arms. “Who’s cornin’ to bed with 
 me,” he cried, “before the bank is broke?” 
 
 “I am, me bould son o’ gosha,” cried Connemara 
 Maggie, rushing to him, with her yellow curly hair 
 streaming about her face and her blue eyes dancing. 
 
 She enveloped his neck with her brawny arms. 
 
 173 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 A t fifteen minutes to one, Bartly Mul- 
 holland entered Biddy Burke’s kitchen and 
 sat by the fire. Nobody addressed him. 
 He saluted nobody. Biddy Burke was sitting on the 
 other side of the fire, on a stool, smoking a cigarette. 
 
 Biddy Burke was a middle-aged woman with a 
 lowering expression in her black eyes, with puffed- 
 out, sallow cheeks and a swollen throat. She was 
 of the type of Irishwoman that is prone to sudden 
 passions, due to the habit of eating enormous meals 
 and then suffering from digestive disorders. They 
 are tender-hearted people, utterly lacking in an 
 aesthetic sense, violent, quarrelsome, savage, gener- 
 ous, inconsistent. Biddy was dressed in a white 
 blouse and a blue skirt. She wore her greyish hair 
 drawn back to her poll tightly and parted in the 
 middle according to the peasant fashion. 
 
 There were other people in the room, two young 
 women who sat on chairs and Jimmy “the fancy 
 man,” who lay on his right side, on the settle op- 
 posite the fire. 
 
 Mulholland looked around the room slowly. 
 Then he spoke. 
 
 174 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 “Was Gypo Nolan here this evenin’, Mrs. Burke?” 
 he said. 
 
 Biddy Burke slowly shook her head, carefully ex- 
 amining Mulholland’s face as she did so. Then, as 
 if she suddenly remembered something important, 
 she leaned forward and bunched her lips together. 
 
 “There hasn’t a man stood within me door this 
 blessed night,” she said in her rough, croaky voice. 
 “No, nor damn the bottle o’ stout did I sell. That’s 
 the God’s truth. Some people find Biddy Burke all 
 right when they’re in trouble an’ they got nothin’, 
 but when their tune changes they give her a wide 
 berth. I’ll soon be in the workhouse at the rate 
 things are goin’. I never saw anythin’ like it. The 
 country is goin’ to the wall. That’s all there’s to it. 
 I knew they’d make a mess of it with their revolu- 
 tions an’ their shootin’ the peelers. Not that I didn’t 
 do me bit to help the boys, God bless ’em, but ’tisn’t 
 the boys that done the fightin’ that get the jobs. 
 So it isn’t. It never is, if ye ask Biddy Burke. It’s 
 them publicans an’ bishops that were always top dog 
 in this country. ’Twas that way before an’ ’tis that 
 way now an’ ’twill be that way when Biddy Burke is 
 goin’ to meet her God on the day of judgment. They 
 were talkin’ about English tyrants, but sure nobody 
 ever saw the likes o’ these tyrants with their searches 
 an’ their raids, an’ every divil’s wart of a farmer’s 
 son that can pull on his breeches without his mother’s 
 help, runnin’ around an’ callin’ himself a gineral. 
 
 175 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 Aw! Gypo Nolan! He’s like the rest o’ them, 
 Bartly Mulholland. You take it from Biddy. In- 
 deed then, he hasn’t set a foot within me door. It’s 
 not that I haven’t heard of his goin’s on though. 
 Huh!” 
 
 “What did ye hear about him?” asked Mulhol- 
 land, peering at her. 
 
 “What did I hear about him?” cried Biddy Burke. 
 “What d’ye take me for, Bartly Mulholland? An 
 information bureau or what? Don’t be both- 
 erin’ me.” 
 
 Mulholland sighed. Then he took out his pipe 
 and lit it. He put his back against the wall and be- 
 gan to smoke in apparent comfort. There was si- 
 lence. Through the open street door sounds of foot- 
 steps and of voices came in through the rain now 
 and again. They were subdued sounds. It seemed 
 that everything was waiting for something monstrous 
 to happen. 
 
 The two young women began in their gruff, 
 cracked voices to discuss the death of Francis Joseph 
 McPhillip. They talked casually, in whispers, in- 
 differently. 
 
 Mulholland peered at them for a moment. Then 
 he sank back into his thoughts. His thoughts just 
 then were not at all comfortable. He had lost track 
 of Gypo. He had been wandering about trying to 
 find his quarry again, absolutely without success. 
 Gypo had been swallowed up. A more nervous man 
 
 176 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 than Mulholland would have not taken the matter so 
 philosophically, so coolly. Because if Gyp o could 
 not b e found again, Mulholland’s own l ife would be 
 m serious danger. But Mulholland was not con- 
 sidering that aspect of the affair. Mulholland was 
 a sincere revolutionist. It was the danger to the 
 “cause” that worried him . The “cause” was his 
 whole existence. He did not understand any other 
 purpose in life except the achievement of an Irish 
 Workers’ Republic. 
 
 Still . . . as he sat on the stool, stoically smok- 
 ing his pipe, other worries came into his mind. If 
 he could not find Gypo and anything serious hap- 
 pened to himself as a result, what would become of 
 his wife and his six young children? He hardly 
 ever thought of them seriously, in this way, with a 
 view to the future. The future held a workers’ re- 
 public, somewhere in the distance, when there would 
 be no slums, no hunger, no sick wives, no children 
 that got the mumps and the rickets and the German 
 measles and the whooping-cough with devilish regu- 
 larity. It never worried him to think that his wife 
 and his six children were for the moment living in a 
 miserable slum shanty, with his wife going rapidly 
 into a decline through hard work. That had to be. 
 The “cause” was above all these things. Why! 
 It was his wife who often urged him on to give all his 
 t ime to the “cause ” whenever he became slightly de- 
 spondent or disheartened, timorous or apathetic. 
 
 177 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 Ever str ugglin g without reward ! 
 
 So he thought suddenly. But almost as soon as 
 the thought entered his brain another thought came 
 in mad, bloodshot pursuit. He pulled savagely at 
 his pipe and ejected the first thought in terror. 
 
 Even “mentally” it was da ngerous to think of 
 leaving the Organization without bei ng expelled . 
 After all . . , terror was the foundation of his zeah 
 
 He forced himself into his habitual calm. His 
 face assumed the impenetrable aspect which he had 
 developed during five years of constant practice. 
 He turned to Biddy Burke again. 
 
 “Where did ye say ye saw Gypo carrying on?” he 
 said casually. 
 
 Biddy Burke looked at him ferociously, emitting 
 two columns of cigarette smoke through her fat 
 nostrils. 
 
 “I didn’t say I saw him carryin’ on anywhere, 
 Bartly Mulholland,” she said angrily. “Be the 
 holy! These late years every one o’ ye is as smart 
 as a corporation lawyer. Now look here, Bartly. 
 I don’t want to have any truck atall with ye or yer 
 crowd. Ye know that too. I know ye, me fine 
 bucko, an’ I don’t think . . . eh . . . well o’ 
 course, Bartly ... ye know what I mane. . . . It’s 
 not . . . uh . . . that I mane any harm . . . but 
 a poor woman like mesel’ ... o’ course I’m ready 
 as I said before to do me duty for me fellow-men 
 . . . but it’s like this . . . what does a woman like 
 
 178 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 me gain be gettin’ mixed up in politics . . . that is 
 o’ course . . . look here,” she continued in a lower 
 voice, “I heard he was up in Aunt Betty’s, raisin’ 
 hell up there. He was one o’ your crowd, 
 wasn’t he?” 
 
 Mulholland looked at her sombrely. She drew 
 back immediately. 
 
 “Well, ye know me well, Bartly,” she muttered 
 apologetically and nervously. “I’m not sayin’ any- 
 thin’ out o’ place. Am I, girls? Sure ” 
 
 Just then an interruption came from outside. 
 Footsteps came rushing to the door. Then gasps 
 were heard. Then a panting sound became audible. 
 Then Katie Fox burst into the room, with her right 
 hand on her hip, her eyes glittering, looking about 
 her wildly. She rushed up to Biddy Burke. She 
 bent down from the hips towards her and began 
 to speak immediately, gasping after each word. 
 
 “What d’ye think of it, Biddy?” she cried. “D’ye 
 know where I found him? D’ye know where I 
 found him? The big hulkin’ waster! An’ she 
 that’s not fit to walk the same street as me with her 
 big, ugly arms around his neck! She laughed in me 
 face. She laughed” — screaming — “in me face! I 
 wish to God I had hit her with the bottle I threw. 
 That ud spoil her mug. Though it was spoiled 
 enough the day she was born. Who was she, may I 
 ask? Who was she, Biddy Burke? I’m askin’ ye. 
 Ye don’t know an’ ye’d never guess in a thousand 
 
 179 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 years. Who would she be but me bould Connemara 
 Maggie! That imperent trapster that came up here 
 last year as a skivvy in a Gaelic Leaguer’s house, one 
 o’ them crazy fellahs that goes around in kilts. She 
 came up here an’ before she was three months in town 
 she was put in the family way be a soldier. Then 
 she comes down here, with her curly locks an’ her big 
 face like a heifer, savin’ the comparison. I pushed 
 up past Aunt Betty in the hall an’ she shoutin’ after 
 me. I bust into the room an’ there he was, sittin’ on 
 the floor, with his legs spread out, drinkin’ outa the 
 neck of a bottle, laughin’ like a fool, with her sittin’ 
 beside him. ‘Hello, Katie,’ says he, ‘d’ye want a 
 drink?’ ‘ ’Twill do ye good,’ says she with a giggle. 
 Me curse on her! I gave him a bit o’ me mind an’ 
 . . . Biddy, for God’s sake, gimme a drink o’ water. 
 Biddy, listen.” 
 
 She threw herself suddenly at Biddy’s feet and 
 began to moan. But almost immediately she 
 jumped to her feet again and cried out: 
 
 “An’ what’s more he gave three quid to that swank 
 of an Englishwoman. He gave her three quid and 
 he paid two quid more to Aunt Betty, money that 
 was owin’ to her for board, an’ he never gave me a 
 penny. Me that kept him for the last six months 
 when I hadn’t a bite mesel’. But I’ll tell everybody. 
 I’ll tell.” 
 
 She looked around her wildly. She saw Mulhol- 
 land. She came up to him and bent down close to 
 
 180 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 his face. Her hat trailed off. Her hair fell down 
 over her eyes. She swayed. She pointed her right 
 forefinger menacingly at Mulholland’s forehead. 
 
 “Listen to me, Bartly,” she said. “You remem- 
 ber me when I was a good girl an’ when I was a mem- 
 ber o’ ... ye know yersel’ . . . Well, so was he, 
 wasn’t he? Well, can ye tell me how did Frankie 
 McPhillip get plugged? Who got the twenty quid 
 that the Farmers’ Union gave out? Where did he 
 get the money? I’m not shoutin’ any names. No 
 names, no pack drills. But ye can guess for yersel’. 
 Where did he get his money from? Was it be rob- 
 bin’ a sailor at the back o’ Cassidy’s same as he 
 told me in the pub? Was it?” She suddenly threw 
 her hands over her head and clawed the air, shriek- 
 ing. They jumped up and caught her. 
 
 Mulholland got to his feet quietly. He stole out 
 into the street, avoiding the people who came rushing 
 up to Biddy Burke’s door, attracted by the scream- 
 ing. 
 
 Mulholland chuckled as he crossed the street. He 
 would have plenty of news for Gallagher. After 
 this there would be little difficulty in his getting Mc- 
 Phillip’s job on the Head-quarters Staff. He stole 
 quietly into the hallway of Aunt Betty’s house. He 
 went noiselessly up the stairs without attracting the 
 attention of the revellers who were still “on the tear.” 
 He reached the landing. There were three doors, 
 with light streaming through each of them. He lis- 
 
 181 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 tened at each door. The third was the right one. 
 He stood straight. He lifted the latch suddenly and 
 strode into the room. He called out as he did so 
 dramatically: 
 
 “Come on, Gypo, it’s time for ye to be cornin’ 
 with me.” 
 
 For a moment he could see nobody, owing to his 
 excitement and the thick mist of smoke and un- 
 escaped vapours which filled the room. He stood 
 within the door with his feet spread out wide on the 
 bare moth-eaten boards of the floor, with his right 
 hand in his pocket fingering his revolver. His heart 
 was beating wildly. Then he became aware of 
 Gypo’s presence. He felt that peculiar movement in 
 his head that the realization of Gypo’s presence al- 
 ways caused, a little snapping movement of unrea- 
 soning terror. Then he heard Gypo’s voice, heavy 
 and hoarse with drunkenness, but cordial and 
 friendly and distinctly patronizing. 
 
 "Hello, Bartly. Sit down an’ have a drink. 
 Plenty time yet.” 
 
 Then he turned his head towards the fireplace 
 and saw Gypo. 
 
 Gypo was sitting on the floor to the right of the 
 fire, in a corner, in half-darkness, bare to the waist, 
 with his trousered legs stretched out at a wide angle, 
 sitting bolt upright, a bottle gripped in his right 
 hand between his knees, his feet bare. 
 
 182 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 Connemara Maggie was standing by the fire dry- 
 ing Gypo’s shirt, his jacket and his socks. The 
 big boots were resting on a fender before the fire, 
 steaming. She took no notice of Mulholland’s en- 
 trance. With her golden hair hanging in disorder 
 over her face, with her blouse undone, with her 
 strong, heavy-boned face covered with perspiration, 
 with her great, soft eyes swollen and gentle like the 
 eyes of a heifer, she busied herself tending her man, 
 just as if she had never left the purity of her Con- 
 nemara hills and she were tending her peasant spouse 
 after a hard day’s work in the fields; instead of tend- 
 ing a casual lover in the sordid environment of a 
 brothel. There was no hint of vice or of libidinous 
 pleasure in her face or in her movements. She 
 seemed to be, like Gypo himself, a child of the 
 earth, unconscious of the artificial sins that are the 
 handiwork of the city. In her two brawny arms 
 she held the steaming shirt to the blaze. She stood 
 silent and immovable. 
 
 There was little else in the small, whitewashed, 
 low-ceilinged room. A bed with the clothes tousled 
 on it, a quilt that lay on the floor by the bed, a chair 
 on three legs and a weatherbeaten washstand, con- 
 taining a basin and a broken jug, comprised the 
 furniture. 
 
 Mulholland looked around at all this before he 
 spoke. It was as well to get the correct details in 
 
 183 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 case identification were necessary. Gypo might 
 deny it. Then he spoke. He had recovered his 
 nerve. 
 
 “No,” he said. “I don’t want a drink. It’s time 
 for ye to be cornin’.” 
 
 “Be off with ye, ye little divil,” yelled Gypo, sud- 
 denly jumping to his feet, with a great scraping and 
 slapping noise. “Who are ye givin’ orders to?” 
 
 He took a pace forward and reached out his right 
 hand, but Mulholland had drawn his revolver and 
 taken a pace to his rear. At the same time he called 
 out in a hissing whisper: 
 
 “It’s not me orders. It’s the Commandant’s 
 orders, an’ ye better be careful about disobeyin’ 
 them.” 
 
 Immediately Gypo drew himself up and let his 
 hands drop to his sides. His face, which had lit up 
 with anger, dropped into that peculiar wondering 
 expression, which he wore when he was musing on 
 the river bank before he went into the police-station. 
 He looked at Mulholland in amazement. His fore- 
 head wrinkled. His nostrils expanded and con- 
 tracted. His thick lips moved backwards and for- 
 wards, up and down. His face and his cropped skull 
 shone in the light of the paraffin lamp that rested on 
 the mantelpiece over the fire. The light also shone 
 across his body, over a bulging bare shoulder that 
 stood out white and massive and round below his 
 brown neck. The shoulder muscles were immense. 
 
 184 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 His body was white and hairless. His skin was per- 
 fectly smooth. But everywhere the muscles strained 
 against the skin, in irregular, moving mounds. 
 They swelled out on his breasts, at his biceps, above 
 his hips, on his shoulders, just as if his head and neck 
 were a massive tree growth and the body muscles 
 were its roots, sunk into the body promiscuously and 
 afar, during centuries of life. 
 
 He looked at Mulholland for some seconds. Then 
 he turned to Maggie. 
 
 “Gimme me clothes, Maggie,” he said quietly. 
 
 She handed them to him in silence. He dressed. 
 He put on his little tattered round hat. Then he put 
 his hand in his trousers pocket. He took out all the 
 money he had left. Two pounds four and sixpence. 
 He put the four and sixpence back into his pocket. 
 He handed the two pound notes to Maggie. 
 
 “Keep one an’ give the other to Katie Fox,” he 
 said. “Ye’ll find her down at Biddy Burke’s.” 
 
 She nodded and put the notes within her blouse. 
 “So long, Maggie. See you again,” he said, going 
 to the door. 
 
 “So long,” she called after him quietly. 
 
 Gypo stalked out unsteadily, followed by Mul- 
 holland. 
 
 After a little while Connemara Maggie also left 
 the room. She went down to Biddy Burke’s. 
 
 Biddy Burke’s was now thronged with people. 
 They were mostly women of the district and their 
 
 185 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 men. They had been talking at a terrific rate when 
 Maggie came in, but a strange silence fell upon them 
 when she appeared. She did not take any notice of 
 them. Going up to Katie Fox, who sat by the 
 hearth, on the seat occupied recently by Mulholland, 
 she took out the pound note and offered it to her. 
 
 “Gypo Nolan gave me this for ye,” she said 
 quietly. 
 
 Katie Fox looked at the note. Then she looked at 
 Maggie. Her under lip was quivering. Her eyes 
 opened and narrowed spasmodically. She was 
 moved by some complex emotion that she could not 
 master for the moment. She did not speak. Others 
 began to whisper. Some spoke out loud and 
 sharply: 
 
 “Don’t take it, Katie. It’s blood money,” said 
 one. 
 
 “ Take it,” said Biddy.. Enrk o in dignantly. “A 
 p ound note d oesn’t smell when iC* ” 
 
 “Money is the common whore of all humanity,” 
 stuttered a tall, lean, drunken gentleman, who dozed 
 by the window with his head dangling. 
 
 “I bet she got more than that to give ye,” said 
 another woman. 
 
 “Yes, I bet she has,” cried Katie Fox, suddenly 
 settling the matter that was agitating her mind, what- 
 ever it was. “I know her. Out with it, Connemara 
 Maggie,” she screamed, jumping to her feet and 
 squaring herself. “Out with it an’ don’t stand there 
 
 186 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 tryin’ to melt butter in me mouth with yer soft looks. 
 How much did he give ye for me? Don’t tell me 
 he only gave me one quid. Yer a liar before ye open 
 yer mouth to say so. Ye ” 
 
 “Well of all the stories — ” cried Connemara 
 Maggie in amazement. 
 
 “Don’t put on airs, Maggie,” said a woman beside 
 her. “Don’t put on airs.” 
 
 “Out with the rest o’ the money,” cried Katie 
 Fox. 
 
 “Yer a pack o’ dogs,” cried Connemara Maggie 
 furiously. “Yer a pack o’ ”. 
 
 She gasped and could say no more, astounded and 
 hurt bitterly by the slanderous attack from Katie 
 Fox, to whom she had never spoken in her life be- 
 fore, except to say good morning. She fumbled at 
 her blouse and took out the other pound note that 
 Gypo had given her for herself. Then she took a 
 purse from a hiding-place on her left thigh. She 
 abstracted another note from that. She put back 
 the purse again. She threw the three notes at Katie 
 Fox. 
 
 “There ye ... ” she hissed. “That’s all his 
 money. Take it. Maybe it’s dirty like yersel’. I 
 am well rid of ye. If he’s yer man, keep him.” 
 
 She spat and strode out of the room, swinging her 
 arms and knocking out of her way all who came in 
 front of her. 
 
 Some stared after her and swore. Others looked 
 187 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 at Katie Fox. Katie had the three pound notes in 
 her hands and her lips were moving. Then Biddy 
 Burke whispered something to her. Immediately 
 Katie sighed and clutched the three notes in her 
 hand, desperately, staring at the floor. Then she 
 held them out to Biddy Burke rapidly, without look- 
 ing in their direction. They lay crumpled in a ball 
 on her quivering thin palm. 
 
 “Take them, Biddy,” she whispered. Then she 
 suddenly raised her voice to an hysterical shriek. 
 “Take them, but for God’s sake hurry and give me 
 something at once. Quick, quick. Give it to me, 
 Biddy. Give it to me.” 
 
 ft 
 
 188 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 I n the Bogey Hole rats scurried about, 
 careless of the sentry who tramped up and 
 down, from end to end of the long stone pas- 
 sage, with his rubber-heeled boots sounding loudly 
 in the cavernous silence. Drops of water gathered 
 slowly on the stone ceilings and then fell with soft, 
 empty splashes to the stone floors. Except for the 
 scurrying of the rats, the falling of the water and the 
 footfalls of the sentry, there was silence. 
 
 The Bogey Hole, in which the Revol uti onar y 
 Orga nization were about to hold their inquiry into 
 t he cause of the dpat.h nf Franrk Jnspnh McPhillip. 
 had once been the wine cellars of a nobleman. 
 Above it the ruins of the house still remained. But 
 everybody had long since forgotten the name of the 
 owner in the district. The hallway of the house was 
 choked with rubbish. The two top stories had fallen 
 in. Only a few rooms remained in a crumbling state. 
 Children played in them and parties of men played 
 cards for money there on Sundays. That’s all. 
 But the wine cellars underneath were often used by 
 the Revolutionary Organization as a meeting-place 
 and for other purposes. 
 
 189 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 A wide stone stairway led down into the cellars 
 from the rear of the hallway. There was a wide 
 passage running straight through the cellars and 
 rooms opened off the passage on either side. In the 
 first room to the left of the stairway six men stood 
 about. They were the guard, seven men including 
 the man who was on sentry. They stood about the 
 room, or sat on the floor by the wall, with their 
 revolvers strapped outside their raincoats. A 
 lighted lantern was placed on the floor in the centre 
 of the room. The faces that were touched by the 
 lantern light were haggard and pale. Farther down 
 on the same side of the passage, a larger room was 
 prepared for the inquiry. A small table had been 
 placed in it. A horse blanket covered the table. 
 There were several small forms there and a little 
 “bedside table” to the right of the main table, with a 
 deck chair behind it. A big lamp, turned on full, 
 hung from the ceiling. It lit up the room so that 
 the dampness on the walls glittered. Two, tall, lean 
 men stood by the entrance to the room, one on either 
 side of it. 
 
 Across the passage, still farther away from the 
 stairway, the Rat Mulligan was sitting on a form in 
 another room. His three guards sat opposite him 
 on a form. They had their revolvers in their hands. 
 
 All along the passage the light of the big lamp 
 penetrated. It reached up three of the steps of the 
 
 190 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 stairway. Beyond that and about the roof of the 
 passage, there was pitch darkness. 
 
 At the far end of the passage the outlines of a door 
 could be seen. It was a heavy oaken door, very old. 
 Formerly it was the door of an airtight room where 
 special wines were kept. These wines were let down 
 into the room from the garden. A trap-door opened 
 off the garden into the room. The barrels were let 
 down through this trap-door. Now, however, the 
 room was used by the Revolutionary Organization 
 for prisoners. A square hole had been made in 
 the upper part of the door to let in air, so that the 
 prisoners would not suffocate. 
 
 It was three minutes past one. Three men, 
 dressed in long raincoats and soft hats, with masks 
 over their eyes, came down the stone stairway. 
 They were immediately challenged by the sentry. 
 One of them mumbled a word casually. The sentry 
 saluted. They walked quickly down the passage 
 and entered the inquiry room. The sentries at the 
 door stood to attention as they entered. They sat 
 down. One of them, he who sat in the middle, threw 
 an attache case on the table and yawned. They all 
 lit cigarettes and began to talk in whispers, with 
 bored, sleepy voices, hardly opening their lips. They 
 were the three members of the Central Ex ecutiv e 
 Committee" who ha~d been appointed as judges for 
 tkeThquiryl 
 
 191 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 At twenty minutes past one Commandant Dan 
 Gallagher came down the stairs with Mary McPhil- 
 lip. She wore a dark woolen overcoat buttoned to 
 the throat and belted at the waist. Gallagher was 
 dressed as before. She looked around her in a 
 frightened manner. Gallagher had to urge her along 
 with his right hand that held her arm. When the 
 sentry uttered his challenge she stopped dead, 
 gasped, and put her hands to her lips. Gallagher 
 began to whisper to reassure her. Trembling and 
 clutching at his arm, she was led by him into the 
 inquiry room. He put her sitting on a form and 
 went over to talk to the members of the Executive 
 Committee, who had not got to their feet or taken 
 any notice whatsoever. 
 
 At twenty-five minutes past one, a hoarse voice 
 was heard at the top of the stairs, yelling the words 
 of a ribald song, while another voice, a hushed one, 
 angrily expostulated. Then there was a savage 
 grunt, an oath, the sound of a heavy body crash- 
 ing into something that broke with a brittle crack 
 and then Gypo came down the stairs. He came 
 down, slipping on his back, with his arms and legs 
 stretched out, groping at the air. He landed at the 
 bottom with a thud. He sat up stiffly. Then he 
 broke out into an amazing peal of laughter. 
 
 Men rushed at him from all directions with their 
 revolvers drawn, as quickly as if they had been wait- 
 ing a long time anxiously for his appearance in that 
 
 192 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 strange manner. But when they saw him sitting 
 there laughing, with his little tattered round hat 
 fallen forward over his forehead, they halted and put 
 their revolvers back into their holsters. 
 
 “Hello, boys,” cried Gypo. “Here I am. What 
 are ye lookin’ at? I’ll fight any six men that ever 
 walked this earth. Who’s first?” 
 
 He jerked himself to his feet with one sudden 
 forward movement, by drawing up one heel under 
 him. He stood up, towering suddenly over those 
 about him. They drew back. Mulholland, who at 
 that moment was limping down the stairs with his 
 hand to his right eye, sidestepped quickly with fright 
 as Gypo stood up. He fell headlong past Gypo’s 
 right shoulder into the arms of two men who reached 
 out to receive him. Then Gallagher pushed his way 
 to the front. 
 
 “What’s the matter here?” he cried sharply. “To 
 your posts, men, quickly. Well, Gypo? What’s 
 troubling you now?” 
 
 Gypo clicked his heels with a loud noise and 
 saluted. He staggered slightly as he saluted. His 
 face, wild with drunkenness, moved spasmodically, 
 but he remained silent. He had not put on his 
 muffler on leaving the brothel. His brown neck was 
 bare, the muscles standing out like ridges on a 
 mountainside. Then he jerked his hat back into 
 its correct position and shuffled his feet. He broke 
 into a low, thick laugh. He spoke. 
 
 193 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 “You an’ me, Commandant,” he said with a fool- 
 ish grin. “What ho! We’ll put ’em all on the run. 
 What d’ye say?” 
 
 Gallagher had been looking steadily at Gypo all 
 the time without a single movement in his face. He 
 turned away in silence and addressed Mulholland. 
 
 “What’s the matter with your eye, Bartly?” he 
 said. 
 
 “Oh! he just came in me way,” interrupted Gypo 
 taking a pace forward and patting Gallagher fami- 
 liarly on the shoulder. “He came in me way — uh — 
 an’ I hit him with the back o’ me hand. That’s all, 
 upon me soul. He’ll be all right again with a bit o’ 
 beefsteak. Don’t worry yersel’ about him, Com- 
 mandant.” 
 
 Gallagher drew away with an irritated gesture and 
 walked back to the inquiry room. Mulholland 
 looked at Gypo with savage hatred in his eyes. 
 Gypo looked around him arrogantly with his chest 
 swelled out. 
 
 “Nolan,” called out Gallagher from the doorway 
 of the inquiry room, “get into that room there across 
 the passage. Third on your right. That’s it. 
 Wait there until you are wanted. See?” 
 
 “All right, Commandant. I see it. I — uh — 
 damn that wall. Stand outa me way, will ye?” 
 
 Gypo stalked down the passage, slightly unsteady 
 on his feet and breathing heavily. He brought up 
 suddenly against the wall again and laughed in his 
 
 194 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 throat with his mouth shut. Then he headed 
 straight for the room where the Rat Mulligan was 
 sitting with his guard. When he had entered that 
 room Gallagher beckoned to Mulholland. Mulhol- 
 land came up. They both disappeared into the in- 
 quiry room. The sentries came to the doorway. 
 They stood at ease across the doorway, facing the 
 passage, with their drawn revolvers in their hands. 
 “The preli minary investigation” had begun: 
 
 Gypo subsided on to a chair beside the Rat Mulli- 
 gan. He sat for several moments with a hand on 
 each knee, staring intently at the ground in front 
 of him, breathing through his nose and twitching 
 his eyebrows that were like snouts. Then he raised 
 his head and looked about him. He examined each 
 of the armed men and nodded to each as he recog- 
 nized him. They ail nodded in return, but in a 
 sour manner. Then he looked towards the huddled 
 form of the Rat Mulligan and he screwed up his 
 face in perplexity. He scratched his skull. He 
 took off his hat and beat it, in a confused way, 
 against his trousers leg, as if he were dusting it. 
 Then he put it on his head again. He reached out 
 his right hand as if to touch Mulligan’s shoulder, 
 but when the hand was within an inch of Mulligan’s 
 shoulder, he jerked it back suddenly. Then he 
 jumped to his feet with an oath and stood facing 
 Mulligan with his chest heaving. 
 
 “Mulligan,” he whispered thickly, but with great 
 195 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 force. “Hey, Rat! What ye doin’ here? Hey, 
 Mulligan!” 
 
 Mulligan never moved for two seconds. He sat 
 on his chair, with his flat feet wide apart and his 
 knees together, with his upturned palms resting on 
 his knees and his head resting on his palms. His 
 little emaciated body was covered with a heavy 
 black overcoat, that hung about him unbuttoned, 
 with its ends trailing on the floor. His hat lay on 
 the ground beside him where it had fallen unheeded 
 from his skull. His shaggy black hair was tousled 
 and damp. Then he slowly raised his head to look 
 at Gypo. His face was yellow and hollow cheeked, 
 with great sorrowful dark eyes and a large mouth 
 filled with two perfect rows of yellow teeth. His 
 mouth was wide open. His eyes were staring and 
 bloodshot. His whole body, ravaged by consump- 
 tion, was terrible to behold. Gypo gasped, looking 
 at it. A look of terror came into his little eyes. 
 
 “Rat,” he whispered, “what brings ye here? Man 
 alive, why aren’t ye in yer bed? This is no hour for 
 a sick man to be out.” 
 
 The Rat stared at Gypo aimlessly as if he had not 
 heard him and could not see him. Then, slowly, his 
 head subsided once more on to his palms. He 
 shivered and sat still. 
 
 Gypo came up to him softly. He stooped down 
 and touched him on the shoulder, as if to console 
 him or to sympathize with him. But as soon as his 
 
 196 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 hand touched Mulligan he drew back with an oath. 
 Through his drunken brain the whole memory of 
 the evening’s proceedings rushed back under the 
 influence of that touch. He remembered distinctly 
 himself in the public-house, denouncing the Rat 
 Mulligan to Gallagher, as the man who had informed 
 against McPhillip. 
 
 He looked about him suspiciously at the armed 
 men. Their eyes were cast about the room indis- 
 criminately, with the habitual bored look of men 
 under discipline. They were taking absolutely no 
 interest in Gypo or in the Rat Mulligan. Gypo 
 sat down again. He took his head between his 
 hands. He crushed his skull with all his might in a 
 great effort to regain control of his faculties. 
 
 For three minutes he sat that way, with all his 
 strength concentrated in the effort to conquer his 
 drunkenness. He was barely conscious of the effort 
 he was making. It was instinct that warned him of 
 the dangers that lay ahead of him, instinct aroused 
 by the contact with Mulligan’s body. His drunken- 
 ness resisted fiercely. Continual waves of reckless 
 delirium surged through his body, rising up from 
 his chest to his head, with the spontaneous action 
 of sea waves swelling up the side of an abrupt prec- 
 ipice. His head hummed and swayed. His eyes 
 blinked. His tongue wagged loose and wanted to 
 talk and sing and laugh. An unaccountable joy 
 permeated him, a joy that did not originate in his 
 
 197 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 actual self but in some strange being that had come 
 to lodge in him temporarily. He could contemplate 
 that new strange being with savage hatred as he 
 pressed his hands against his skull. That being was 
 an enemy of his. He must conquer him. 
 
 At last he felt his drunkenness weakening, gradu- 
 ally, like the lessening of a pain at night. It did not 
 disappear but its effects changed. Instead of feel- 
 ing reckless and hilarious, he began to feel cunning, 
 careful, gloomy, defiant, recklessly strong. His 
 head cooled and steadied. It seemed to have be- 
 come suddenly walled with steel, so that he almost 
 experienced a physical pain from the pressure of his 
 skull against the skin on his forehead. But he took 
 away his hands from his forehead and he found that 
 the pain vanished. His teeth set. His face as- 
 sumed a look of stony apathy, the lips hanging 
 flabbily, the cheeks loose, the eyes vacant. All the 
 muscles of his body went loose, with the looseness 
 of the athlete, who is standing at ease, but ready to 
 plunge off somewhere like an arrow. 
 
 In response to this change, as it were in his person- 
 ality, he got to his feet in a dignified, calculated, 
 imperious manner. He cleared his throat. He held 
 out his right hand. He spoke. 
 
 “Listen, men,” he said. “I had a drop taken 
 when I came in here. I didn’t know what I was 
 doin’. I just remembered now who I was talkin’ 
 
 198 
 
I 
 
 THE INFORMER 
 
 to an’ it nearly knocked me dead. Look at him.” 
 He pointed a thick, short, hairy forefinger at Mul- 
 ligan. “He wouldn’t speak to me. He’s afraid to 
 look at me. I know why. It’s him that informed 
 on Frankie McPhillip an’ he knows that I saw 
 him.” 
 
 “It’s a lie,” screamed Mulligan, suddenly starting 
 up and spreading out his hands and feet, downwards 
 and outwards, as if he were resting exhausted after 
 a race. His face was distorted with fear, amazement 
 and rage. “It’s a lie, boys. It’s a lie I tell yez. 
 Before the Blessed Mother of the Infant Jesus I 
 swear on me knees that I never left the house to-day 
 except to go to the chapel to say me prayers.” 
 
 “Ha! Me fine boyo!” cried Gypo excitedly. 
 “Will ye listen to his oaths? It’s easy work for an 
 informer swearin’ oaths.” 
 
 “Never — ” began Mulligan again. But he was 
 cut short by two of the armed men seizing him by the 
 arms, forcing him back to his seat and putting a 
 handkerchief over his mouth. 
 
 At the same time Gallagher rushed out of the 
 inquiry room and across the passage with his pistol 
 in his hand. His sallow, lean face was aflame with 
 anger. His eyes sparkled like points of fire. He 
 looked at Gypo for a fleeting moment. It was no 
 longer the cold, contemptuous, patronizing look with 
 which he had regarded him in the public-house. 
 
 199 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 It was a look of fierce, relentless hatred. “The pre- 
 liminary investigation” had convinced him of some- 
 thing. 
 
 Gypo, on the other hand, looked at Gallagher in 
 a friendly, intimate, confident manner. 
 
 “Here he is,” he said, pointing at the convulsing 
 body of Mulligan. “He knows it’s all up with him 
 already. He went into fits when I taxed him with 
 it. So he did.” 
 
 Then he opened his mouth and gave voice to a 
 hoarse laugh. 
 
 Gallagher smiled faintly into Gypo’s eyes. There 
 was something diabolic in the smile. It was so in- 
 human. 
 
 “Come on, you two witnesses,” he said icily. 
 “You, Nolan, and you, Mulligan. You are wanted 
 at the inquiry now. Lead them in, two of you.” 
 
 Gypo walked across the passage jauntily, swing- 
 ing his shoulders, with his chest thrown out with his 
 head in the air. Mulligan had to be carried across. 
 He sobbed all the way fitfully. The two sentries 
 with drawn revolvers again took up their position 
 in the doorway. Now, however, they had their 
 backs to the passage. They faced the two witnesses. 
 The two witnesses were seated on a small form in 
 front of the larger table. They sat side by side. 
 The two armed men who had conducted them into 
 the room stood close behind them. The three 
 judges sat in front of Gypo and of Mulligan at the 
 
 200 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 large table. Gallagher sat at the little table to the 
 right, with Mulholland standing a little to his rear, 
 peering over his shoulder at what he was reading. 
 To the right of the judges Mary McPhillip sat on a 
 form alone. 
 
 There was a deadly silence for several moments. 
 Drops of water, one after another, in irregular suc- 
 cession, could be heard falling from the stone roof 
 to the stone floor, near the walls. Then the centre 
 judge spoke in a bored, drawling voice. 
 
 “Take Peter Mulligan’s statement, comrade 
 Gallagher,” he said. 
 
 As soon as Mulligan heard his name mentioned he 
 tried to jump to his feet, but the man standing 
 behind him held him down. At the same time Gypo 
 put his hand on Mulligan’s thigh and made a threat- 
 ening gesture with his head. 
 
 “Keep quiet, will ye? Ye rat!” he growled. 
 
 “Peter Mulligan,” said Gallagher, “give an ac- 
 count of your whereabouts from noon to-day until 
 midnight when you were brought in here.” 
 
 Mulligan looked at Gallagher for some time be- 
 fore replying. He was obviously trying to speak. 
 His lips moved. But terror held the tip of his 
 tongue against his upper teeth. He could only jab- 
 ber inaudibly. Then at last the tongue sprang loose 
 and the words rushed out in a flood, incoherent, al- 
 most inarticulate, like the barking of a dog. Then 
 he gasped. He paused. When he continued, his 
 
 201 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 speech was regular and almost calm. He had be- 
 come possessed of that meaningless courage that 
 comes to nervous and timorous people, when they 
 find themselves in a position where it is useless to be 
 careful, or to exercise any control over themselves. 
 
 “What’s the meaning of this treatment of a 
 working-man?” he cried. “By you men_that are 
 supposed to be out for the freedom of the working 
 class. Can ye find no better man to arrest an’ carry 
 off in the middle o’ the night than me, that’s dyin’ 
 on me feet o’ consumption? An’ havin’, still an’ 
 all, to work me hands off at me trade, tailorin’ an’ 
 stitchin’ in a basement, that’s more like the cave of 
 
 a wild animal than a room. Me that’s ” 
 
 “Mulligan,” interrupted Gallagher impassively 
 but sharply, “I asked you for a statement of your 
 whereabouts, between noon to-day and midnight to- 
 night. You better be quick about your statement. 
 We have no time to waste.” 
 
 Suddenly Mulligan’s short-lived arrogance van- 
 ished. He looked around him on all sides patheti- 
 cally. He saw only stern, unsympathetic faces. 
 He sighed and dug his hands deep into his overcoat 
 pockets. Then he drew the pockets closely about 
 his body and crouched low on his seat. He began 
 to speak in a meek, timorous voice. 
 
 “Lemme see,” he said, looking at the ground. “At 
 noon to-day, or let us say dinner time, if it’s the same 
 to you, I was lyin’ in me bed. I had a bad pain in 
 
 202 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 me right side from bronchitis all the mornin’ an’ I 
 had to stay in bed with it. At one o’clock about, the 
 old woman gev me a cup o’ tay an’ an egg. I re- 
 member I couldn’t ate the egg. Well, that’s no mat- 
 ter. I had to get up then, on account of a suit that 
 has to be made for Mick Foley the carter. It’s got 
 to be finished be Friday. His daughter is gettin’ 
 married next Monday to ” 
 
 “Don’t mind Foley’s daughter,” snapped Galla- 
 gher. “What had she got to do with your move- 
 ments? Tell us about yourself.” 
 
 Mulligan began to cough furiously. His body 
 shook and he almost fell off the form. Then the fit 
 subsided. He sat shivering and unable to speak. 
 
 “Come on, Rat,” growled Gypo, nudging him with 
 his elbow in the ribs. “Ye might as well come out 
 with it now as another time. Go ahead an’ tell ’em 
 all about it.” 
 
 Mulligan looked at Gypo. His lips trembled. 
 His great dark eyes filled with tears. The terrific, 
 massive countenance of Gypo, cunning with drunk- 
 enness, did not inspire him at that moment with fear. 
 For some peculiar reason, his poor, shattered soul 
 had gathered to itself just then a great courage. His 
 withered face shone with a spiritual power. He 
 spoke softly, tenderly, with pity. 
 
 “It’s not for me to condemn ye,” he said; “maybe 
 yer not responsible.” 
 
 “Blast ye,” yelled Gypo, jumping to his feet. 
 
 203 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 “What does he mean, Commandant Gallagher, about 
 me not bein’ res-re-prosible? What does he mean 
 by it? I want to know what he’s drivin’ at.” 
 
 “Sit down, Nolan,” cried Gallagher. “Sit down 
 immediately and keep quiet. Sit down, I say.” 
 
 Gypo sat down with a clutter. He stared at Gal- 
 lagher, with the strange, bewildered look of a dog 
 that has been reprimanded by his master and is 
 wondering why he has been reprimanded. For the 
 first time he realized that there was a cold, danger- 
 ous ring in Gallagher’s voice. He sat immovable for 
 two moments, without drawing breath, meditating on 
 this hostile ring which he had heard in Gallagher’s 
 voice. 
 
 Unconsciously he took off his little, tattered, 
 round, slouch hat. He pushed it, without looking 
 at it, into his right-hand trousers pocket. 
 
 Mulligan began again to talk. 
 
 “Lemme see,” he said, “where was I? Oh, yes. 
 I worked on till about half-past three or maybe a 
 quarter to four, when Charlie Corrigan came in an’ 
 said that his brother Dave had just come outa jail, 
 after bein’ on hunger strike for eighteen days. Ye 
 remember he was thrown in on account of the Slum 
 Rents Agitation. £ He’s upstairs,’ says Charlie. 
 Well, I went up an’ we talked over a cup o’ tay until 
 about six o’clock. It was just six when I left, be- 
 cause I heard the angelus beginnin’ to strike an’ I 
 on me way down the stairs, because I stopped to 
 
 204 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 cross mesel’. Then I ran down home an’ put on 
 me overcoat and went out to the chapel. I’m makin’ 
 the Stations o’ the Cross for . . He stopped and 
 flushed. . . . “Well, it’s no matter to no man why 
 I’m makin’ em.” 
 
 “All right, then,” snapped Gallagher. “We don’t 
 want to know why you are making them. We 
 merely want facts, not superstitions. You went into 
 the chapel at six o’clock, or a few minutes after- 
 wards to be precise. How far is the chapel from 
 your house?” 
 
 “Maybe it’s a hundred yards, maybe it’s more. 
 If ye go around the corner be Kane’s its less, but 
 be goin’ the other road around— — 
 
 “Oh, damn the other road. Pardon me, Miss Mc- 
 Phillip. Let us say it’s one hundred yards. You 
 arrived at the chapel then at about three minutes 
 past six. That correct?” 
 
 “Uh . . . that ud be right . . . about that.” 
 
 “Well? How long did you stay there?” 
 
 “I stayed there until about half-past six. An’ 
 then I stayed talkin’ outside the door to Fr. Conroy 
 for maybe ten minutes. He wanted to know ” 
 
 “Did you talk to anybody other than the priest 
 you mention?” 
 
 “I’m cornin’ to that. After I left Fr. Conroy I 
 met Barney Kerrigan.” 
 
 “Where? Near the chapel?” 
 
 “Yes. It must have been within fifty yards of it, 
 205 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 as yer goin’ be measurements, although we 
 never ” 
 
 “Just a moment. Were you ev er a m ember of the 
 Revolutionary Organization?” 
 
 ~ rr WEat makes ye ask. that? Does any man know 
 better than yersel’ whether I was or not?” 
 
 “Were you a member?” 
 
 “Sure I was.” 
 
 “That’s better. Why did yo u leave it? ” 
 
 “I left it, Commandant Gallagher, for reasons that 
 are known to yersel’ as well as they are to me.” 
 His voice became passionate and shrill. “I left it 
 because the only one I cared for in this world, out- 
 side me old woman, that’s me sister, came to her 
 doom through it. But it’s not for me to judge. It’s 
 not for me . . .” 
 
 “Very well,” interrupted Gallagher. “You left 
 the Organization o wing to a person al g rievanc e. 
 Was that grievance against any particular member 
 of the Organization?” 
 
 “I bear no fellow-man a grudge,” cried Mulligan 
 solemnly. 
 
 “You had no grievance against Fraticis Joseph 
 McPhillip?” 
 
 “Lord have mercy on his soul,” cried Mulligan, 
 crossing himself with his eyes on the ceiling. “I 
 hope his sorrows are over him.” He turned to Miss 
 McPhillip. “I swear on me immortal soul, Miss 
 McPhillip, that I bore no grudge agin yer brother.” 
 
 206 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 “All right,” said Gallagher. “Well. Tell us 
 what you did after leaving Barney Kerrigan.” 
 
 “I went back to the house after that. I did an- 
 other bit o’ work until about eight o’clock. I didn’t 
 do much because fellahs kept cornin’ in an’ out an’ 
 me eyes are not as good as they used to be an’ the 
 gas now is a disgrace to the city. But anyhow, I 
 finished the waistcoat. Then I went upstairs to 
 Jim Daly’s room on the third floor. Poor man, he’s 
 sick this three years with bad kidneys. Only for a 
 pension he has outa the British Navy, there’s no 
 knowin’ what ud happen to him, an’ he havin’ no one 
 to look after him but himself, an’ he that delicate 
 We had a smoke an’ a talk until about ten o’clock. 
 Then I came down again. The old woman had just 
 come in, so we had another cup o’ tay an’ a herring. 
 Then I sat be the fire readin’ a newspaper until 
 about half-past eleven. Then I began to pouch 
 about makin’ ready to go to bed, when three men un- 
 der Tommy Connor came in an’ put a mask over me 
 face an’ bundled me into a car, without by yer leave, 
 as if I was a criminal. That’s all.” 
 
 There was a slight pause. Everybody sighed for 
 some reason. 
 
 “Very good, Mulligan,” said Gallagher. “That 
 will do.” 
 
 He got up and went over to the judges’ table. 
 The four of them talked for about two minutes. 
 The centre judge read from a paper in a mumbling 
 
 207 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 voice. Another judge took notes, scratching loudly 
 with his pen. There was a pause. Then another 
 discussion in whispers began. Then Gallagher came 
 back to his seat. 
 
 “Nolan,” he said, quite suddenly, “repeat the 
 statement concerning Peter Mulligan that you made 
 to me in Ryan’s public-house in Titt Street at ten- 
 forty-five this night.” 
 
 “Yes, Commandant,” said Gypo immediately. 
 
 He cleared his throat aggressively and rattled off 
 the story about his having seen Mulligan track 
 Francis Joseph McPhillip out of the Dunboy Lodg- 
 ing House. He spoke in a clear, loud and distinct 
 voice, making arrogant gestures and looking straight 
 into Gallagher’s eyes as he spoke. 
 
 Mulligan kept trembling while Gypo spoke. He 
 seemed all the time trying to interrupt, but although 
 his lips twitched and his hands trembled he neither 
 moved nor spoke. 
 
 Gypo finished speaking. His loud, strong voice 
 died out, leaving a sudden silence behind it. There 
 was another slight pause. 
 
 “What time exactly did you see Mulligan leave the 
 lodging-house?” said Gallagher. 
 
 “Just half-past six,” replied Gypo immediately. 
 “I know because I looked at the clock in the 
 hall.” 
 
 “Very well,” said Gallagher. “That will do you, 
 208 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 Nolan. Miss McPhillip, what time did your brother 
 arrive at your father’s house?” 
 
 “He arrived at ten minutes to seven,” said Mary, 
 after a little pause, during which she blushed slightly, 
 glanced at Gallagher and then looked at the ground. 
 “It might be a little earlier than that, but not more 
 than a minute or so. I had just come in from busi- 
 ness.” 
 
 “Did he say anything about being followed when 
 he came?” 
 
 “No. On the contrary, he said that he was certain 
 that he was not noticed since he came into town at 
 half-past five. Mother was very worried about his 
 being in town, and she wanted to get him away im- 
 mediately, but he was so confident about being safe 
 that she thought it was all right his staying for the 
 night. He said he met Nolan at the lodging-house. 
 That was the only person he spoke to, he said. He 
 came by back streets after leaving the lodging-house. 
 He never stopped anywhere and he spoke to nobody. 
 He crossed the river at the Metal Bridge. It was 
 pitch-black at that time on account of the rain and 
 the fog. Anybody that knew Frankie’s way of going 
 along, listening to every sound, with ears as sharp 
 as a fox, could hardly believe that he was followed 
 without his knowing it. He came in suddenly by 
 the back entrance through the yard. We thought it 
 was his ghost,” she said with a little shiver of remem- 
 
 209 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 brance. She stopped and put her handkerchief to 
 her face. 
 
 “Thank you, Miss McPhillip,” said Gallagher. 
 “Barney Kerrigan out there?” 
 
 “Kerrigan there?” 
 
 “Kerrigan?” 
 
 “Yes. I’m coming,” came a voice from along the 
 passage somewhere. 
 
 A tall man, wearing a black slouch hat and a new, 
 though shabby, grey overcoat with a velvet collar, 
 came into the room. He had a revolver strapped 
 over his overcoat at the waist. He saluted and stood 
 to attention. 
 
 “Did you meet Peter Mulligan at six-thirty this 
 evening?” said Gallagher. 
 
 “Yes, Commandant,” replied Kerrigan. “I saw 
 him just about that time cornin’ down the street. 
 He stopped me to know did I know anythin’ for the 
 Grand National.” 
 
 “Very well. You are quite sure about the time?” 
 
 “Well, I couldn’t give ye the exact second, but it 
 couldn’t be more than a minute one way or the other. 
 I knocked off work at six an’ it takes me always just 
 about twenty minutes to walk from the quays as far 
 as Farelly’s. Well, I had a pint in Farelly’s an’ I 
 stopped for a few.minutes to talk to the boys, an’ then 
 when I came out I met Peter Mulligan. Just about 
 half-past six I’d say it was.” 
 
 “Very well,” said Gallagher, “return to your post. 
 
 210 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 Peter Mulligan, you can go now. You will be taken 
 home in the car that brought you here and we’ll see 
 you right for any inconvenience that was caused to 
 you.” He walked over to the judges and whispered 
 something hurriedly. They all nodded and put their 
 hands in their pockets. “One moment, Mulligan,” 
 he called. They all gave him money. He added 
 some from his own pocket. He came over to Mulli- 
 gan and handed him a fistful of silver. “For the 
 present this might help you. I’ll see what can be 
 done for you later on. I’ll bring your case up before 
 the Relief Committee. Good-night, Comrade.” 
 
 Mulligan took the money with bowed head. He 
 got up and moved to the door hurriedly without say- 
 ing a word, with his hat crushed in his two hands 
 and his overcoat flapping behind him. He disap- 
 peared out the door, head first, stooping, hauling his 
 two flat feet after him as if he were dragging them 
 against their will. Then, with a hard, biting cough 
 he disappeared. 
 
 The sentries stood again across the door. Galla- 
 gher walked slowly back to his table. He sat down. 
 There was a deadly silence. 
 
 The silence lasted only about twelve seconds. 
 During this pause Gallagher took out a notebook and 
 turned over the pages, while Mulholland bent over 
 his shoulder whispering something, and the three 
 judges murmured with their heads close together. 
 But to Gypo these twelve seconds were as long as 
 
 211 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 twelve years to a man stricken with a painful and 
 incurable disease. A succession of terrors flitted 
 through his mind. They were not ideas or thoughts, 
 but almost tangible terrors that seemed to materialize 
 in his brain as the result of the reasoning of some 
 foreign being. His cunning and his assurance were 
 gripped suddenly by that amazing foreigner and 
 hurled out of him, clean out of him into oblivion, 
 like two bullets fired through the air. 
 
 Ha! They were hurled out of him by the amazing 
 fact of Mulligan’s disappearance, free, with money 
 in his pocket given to him by Gallagher. They had 
 given him money. They had called him comrade. 
 They had promised to bring his case up before the 
 Relief Committee. They sent him away free. He 
 had gone. . . . Jesus, Mary and Joseph! What was 
 the meaning of it? 
 
 Then suddenly, as he sat there, bolt upright on his 
 seat, massive, those unspeakable terrors crowded into 
 his mind. They came ready-made, fully matured, 
 nauseating like bilious attacks, sharp and biting like 
 bayonet wounds, heavy and ponderous like palpita- 
 tions of the heart. They came, one, two, three, four 
 . . . scores of them, lining up in his brain, shoulder 
 to shoulder, in a mass, standing there solidly and 
 then immediately disappearing like ghosts without a 
 sound and giving place to others. There was a mass 
 of them but each one was distinct. Each had its 
 own peculiar silent screech. Each had its own pecu- 
 
 212 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 liar demoniac grin. Each had its own peculiar . . . 
 damn them all! The curse of them was that he did 
 not know what they were. It seemed that his person- 
 ality was bound in chains and he was unable to 
 grapple with the cursed things. He must sit still, 
 bolt upright on his wooden form, and permit them to 
 stand there unchallenged in his brain. He was help- 
 less. A cold sweat came out through every pore of 
 his body. 
 
 Four seconds passed. Then his mind began to 
 grope about among the terrors, timorously, like a 
 snail that has been touched and has gone into his 
 shell feigning death and has come out again touching 
 blades of grass suspiciously and wriggling its horns. 
 Gypo opened his nostrils and his mouth. He drew 
 in a deep breath through both organs simultaneously. 
 The cold sweat suddenly became warm. His blood 
 flooded his head with a surging movement. He be- 
 came ferocious. At first his eyes narrowed and his 
 eyebrows that were like snouts bent down. Then his 
 eyes opened wide and his eyebrows lifted, like guns 
 that are elevated in order to train them on a target. 
 His lower lip dropped. His mind began to work 
 methodically. The terrors vanished out of it and 
 gave place to an iron determination to fight to the 
 bitter end. 
 
 With his blood maddened by alcohol, he became 
 conscious of the vast strength in his body. Fie al- 
 most experienced a feeling of happiness at this oppor- 
 
 213 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 tunity for using it. It was that savage joy that is 
 always present in the Irish soul in time of danger, 
 the great fighting spirit of our race, born of the mists 
 and the mountains and the gurgling torrents and the 
 endless clamour of the sea. 
 
 He looked around him measuring those against 
 whom he had to fight. To his left he saw Mary 
 McPhillip sitting. She had her hands in her lap. 
 She was leaning forward slightly, with a nervous 
 expectant look in her eyes, looking at Gallagher. 
 She cast a terrified glance, occasionally, towards 
 Gypo, but her eyes always came back to Gallagher’s 
 face as if they were fascinated by it. It was obvious 
 that she was terrified and that her mind was trying 
 to keep itself fixed on the object of the prayers which 
 her moving lips were uttering. Gypo saw the terror 
 in her quivering face and knew that he had nothing 
 to fear from her. Then he looked at the three 
 judges. He knew th ose masked men. They were 
 merely puppets, politicians, figure-heads who would 
 do Gallagher’s bidding, afrai d to contradict him . 
 Ha! Gallagher was the man he had to fight. Galla- 
 gher and that rat Mulholland. He saw them over 
 by the little table with their heads together. He 
 fixed his eyes on them. 
 
 Feverishly he set himself to form a plan, not that 
 he hoped anything at this hour from the formation of 
 a plan, but merely because making a plan was an end 
 in itself to his peculiar reason. But he could not 
 
 214 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 even think of a plan. All his energies were concen- 
 trated on maintaining his anger at fever heat. He 
 struggled feebly with threads of ideas and then 
 dropped them hopelessly. He doubled up his fists 
 and held them, knuckles downwards, one on each 
 hip. The two armed men who stood behind him, 
 saw his back muscles rise and strain against his dun- 
 garee jacket. 
 
 Then the silence broke. Gallagher got up with his 
 open notebook in his hand. He walked over to the 
 judges’ table. He placed the notebook in front of 
 the judges, pointing out something with his finger. 
 The centre judge nodded. Gallagher walked back 
 again to his table and sat down. Gypo followed 
 every movement with frenzied excitement. He 
 seemed to be on the point of jumping to his feet and 
 rushing at Gallagher. The two sentries in the door- 
 way and the two armed men standing behind Gypo’s 
 back slipped their fingers over their revolver trig- 
 gers. They leaned forward slightly. There was a 
 tense moment. Then Gallagher looked at Gypo and 
 began to speak sharply, in a low, restrained voice. 
 
 “Now Gypo,” he began, “tell us how you spent 
 your time from six o’clock this evening until you 
 came in here at half-past one. Hurry up. Don’t 
 waste any time. We are in a hurry.” 
 
 Gypo’s eyes almost shut. Then his face seemed 
 to swell. His mouth contorted. 
 
 “What’s it got to do with you where I ben?” he 
 215 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 thundered in a queer, hollow voice. It seemed his 
 mouth had gone dry. 
 
 “You never know,” said Gallagher carelessly. “It 
 might be interesting for us to know. Don’t you feel 
 like telling us how you’ve been amusing yourself from 
 the time you met Francis Joseph McPhillip at six 
 o’clock in the Dunboy Lodging House until you 
 came in here?” 
 
 “An’ supposin’ I don’t tell ye, what are ye goin’ to 
 do? Wha’?” 
 
 “Well, I’m not going to tell you that. But we can 
 do a lot. You know that yourself, don’t you? You 
 have your choice in the matter. You either tell me 
 or I’ll go to the trouble of telling you and the court 
 myself.” He paused for an instant and then added: 
 “with the help of Bartly Mulholland here.” 
 
 Then he stared at Gypo dispassionately, with the 
 cold and indifferent look of a man examining a 
 statue. Gypo’s chest heaved in and out. He had 
 not been prepared for this point-blank attack from 
 Gallagher. He had expected that Gallagher would 
 adopt his usual tactics of friendliness and cajolery, 
 trusting to madden his prey into letting some choice 
 important word slip unawares from his lips. Gypo 
 felt himself actually cheated out of his rights by this 
 insultingly crude and insolent attack. Gallagher was 
 not even doing him the honour of playing with him. 
 Then he must know everything already. Did he? 
 
 The last trace of his self-control left Gypo. He 
 216 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 abandoned himself to a frenzy of passion. A de- 
 lirious wave of ferocity mastered him. He clenched 
 his fists so that the bones cracked. His right leg 
 went so rigid that the boot rushed along the stone 
 floor with a harsh scraping sound, until it brought 
 up with a bang against the leg of the form. There 
 it stayed. His knee was pointed and shivering. He 
 opened his mouth and yelled, almost incoherently, a 
 torrent of blasphemous and obscene oaths at Galla- 
 gher. He yelled them in an endless sentence, without 
 a verb or pronoun or conjunction. He kept yelling 
 until he had to stop for breath. 
 
 When Gypo stopped, Mary McPhillip’s sobs be- 
 came audible. She was trembling violently and sob- 
 bing. Gallagher got up, walked past Gypo without 
 taking the slightest notice of him and took Mary by 
 the arm. He led her up to the judge’s table. 
 
 “I have no further need of this witness,” he said, 
 “so I suppose I may take her into another room.” 
 
 The judges nodded. He led Mary out of the room. 
 Gypo’s eyes followed him everywhere. He was star- 
 ing wildly and he seemed to have lost all power of 
 directing his bodily activities. He was shivering 
 spasmodically in his legs. Gallagher came back into 
 the room and sat down at his table. 
 
 Still Gypo’s eyes were concentrated on Gallagher’s 
 face. His outburst had left him completely empty, 
 like a shaken sack. There was a pain at the pit of 
 the stomach. Mob orators know that pain, when 
 
 217 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 they have spoken for over an hour under a perfect 
 hail of frenzied interruptions. His eyes were dazed. 
 Some machinal force kept his eyes concentrated on 
 Gallagher’s face. He responded to every movement 
 of Gallagher’s face in a half-conscious way. Every 
 time Gallagher moved a limb he felt a sharp stab in 
 the pit of the stomach. He was conscious of even 
 the most minute movements. A thing that terrified 
 him especially was Gallagher’s chronic habit of 
 twitching his cheeks by grinding his back teeth at 
 intervals. 
 
 As before, this agony lasted during a few moments 
 only, during the time that Gallagher was looking at 
 some notes on his table, with furrowed forehead. 
 But the moments seemed years, the agony was so con- 
 centrated. Gallagher spoke again. 
 
 Then again a strange change came over Gypo. 
 For as soon as Gallagher spoke he felt an instan- 
 taneous relief. He breathed deeply. He sighed. A 
 delicious tremor swept over his body like a cool 
 breeze sweeping the back of a sultry sea in summer. 
 His jaws set again. Gallagher’s voice had a different 
 ring in it. It was softer. It was friendly. It was 
 . . . honour bright ... it was argumentative. 
 Then there was a chance. . . . There must be a 
 chance yet. . . .” 
 
 “What did you mean, Gypo?” cried Gallagher. 
 “What did you mean by telling us all those lies about 
 the Rat Mulligan? You should be ashamed of your- 
 
 218 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 self. Even if you got a grudge against a man, that’s 
 no reason why you should try to get a thing like that 
 slung on to him. Good Lord! You’re a funny man, 
 Gypo. What put it into your head to tell me that 
 you saw him this evening at the Dunboy Lodging 
 House, when we know very well that he was within 
 one hundred yards of his own home at that very 
 minute, three miles away or more? Were you drunk 
 or what?” 
 
 “I know I was drunk,” cried Gypo, responding joy- 
 fully to this friendly overture from Gallagher. His 
 anger vanished. His whole soul leaned out eagerly 
 towards Gallagher, craving support. He paused mo- 
 mentarily after uttering the first sentence. He re- 
 mained silent, leaning forward, looking at Gallagher, 
 intently, as if he expected Gallagher to finish the 
 statement for him. But when Gallagher’s thin lips 
 remained sealed, he hurtled on excitedly, as if he 
 were stumbling recklessly through dangerous obsta- 
 cles. His voice was uneven and flurried. “But I’d 
 swear be Almighty God that it was him I saw goin’ 
 out the door and runnin’ up the lane after Frankie. 
 An’ if it wasn’t him it must have been somebody else 
 like him, for I’d know the cut of his shoulders any- 
 where. I would if ye put my head in a bag.” 
 
 “You told me,” continued Gallagher in the same 
 friendly scolding tone, “that you followed the Rat 
 across town until you came to . . . Where was that 
 you said you lost sight of him? I forgot now.” 
 
 219 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 Gypo started and stuttered. Good Lord, what had 
 he said? He must say the same thing he had said 
 before. But he could not remember saying that he 
 followed the Rat across town. Did he say it in the 
 public-house or did he not. His forehead was burn- 
 ing. The hammering at the top of his skull was 
 blinding his eyes with pain. Almost unconsciously 
 he put his hand to his forehead and blurted out, 
 pathetically, on a peculiar high note, an amazingly 
 childish and hysterical sentence. 
 
 “Commandant, I’m all mixed up an’ I can remem- 
 ber nothin’.” 
 
 It was horrid, that pitiful, forlorn cry of pain and 
 of absolute despair coming from such a giant. 
 
 “All right then,” said Gallagher, “don’t worry 
 yourself. We have to get to the bottom of this 
 business, so we’ll just set to work, the two of us, and 
 maybe we can piece the whole thing together. Now 
 the best thing we can do is to begin at the end and 
 go backwards. We’ll work backwards until we come 
 to the point where you lost that man you saw track- 
 ing Frankie McPhillip out of the Dunboy Lodging 
 House. In that case we’ll begin with where you were 
 before you came in here. Bartly Mulholland tells us 
 that you were at Aunt Betty’s, with a woman called 
 Connemara Maggie. You must have been with her, 
 because Bartly saw you with his own eyes giving her 
 two pound notes. There were three empty whisky 
 bottles in the room. They had been bought by you, 
 
 220 
 
THE INFORM ER 
 
 I suppose. Well? A man is entitled to drink his 
 own whisky that he has bought with his own money, 
 I suppose. That has got nothing to do with our 
 business, has it Gypo? None whatsoever. We 
 merely want to trace that man that tracked Francis 
 Joseph McPhillip out of the Dunboy Lodging House. 
 Well! What do we find next? A friend of yours 
 called Katie Fox, once upon a time a comrade of 
 ours, they are all to the front in this business, all 
 those people that were once comrades of ours, she 
 told Bartly Mulholland that you gave three pounds 
 to an English woman at Aunt Betty’s and two pounds 
 to Aunt Betty to pay a debt for this woman. You 
 wanted to send her back to London. A kind of 
 Barnardo’s Home or something, this Aunt Betty’s, 
 for stray women. Well, of course, that again has 
 nothing to do with us. A man is entitled to do what 
 he likes with his own money. But. . . . Good 
 Lord, Gypo,” he cried, striking the table and burst- 
 ing out into a strange hilarious laugh, “you were 
 having a time of it. Where did you get all the 
 money? Ha! Now don’t get excited. I know it’s 
 no business of mine. But if you’re going to be taken 
 back into the Organization . . . Well! There are 
 ugly rumours flying about. . . . You know the way 
 silly rumours fly around Dublin. It’s awful. But 
 the fact is, that people are talking about sailors, 
 American sailors, being robbed at the back of Cas- 
 sidy’s public-house. It’s only a rumour, of course, 
 
 221 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 and again, that friend of yours, Katie Fox — shall we 
 call her one of our ex-comrades? — she is responsible 
 for the rumour, according to Bartly Mulholland. Of 
 course, it’s obviously originated with her. She has 
 very probably invented that story out of spite, simply 
 because you went with the other girl. Or . . . Tell 
 me, is there any truth in it, Gypo? I mean in the 
 rumour of your having robbed a sailor?” 
 
 Gypo started, as if out of a heavy sleep. His 
 brain went “thud, thud, thud,” trying to think 
 whether he should say “yes,” or “no.” If he said 
 “yes,” would he be caught in the act of telling a lie? 
 If he said “no,” would he be able to find any other 
 means of explaining how he got the money? Several 
 other questions and problems also crowded into his 
 mind simultaneously, in confusion. There were 
 doubts, uncertainties and suspicions. He was com- 
 pletely in a mesh. His mind was like a refuse heap. 
 There was no beginning or end to any chain of 
 reasoning. He gave it up in despair. 
 
 “Commandant,” he said, again touching his fore- 
 head, “I can make out nothin’. My head is sore. 
 I must be drunk.” 
 
 Again it was the same bewildered, agonizing cry 
 of a lost human soul. A weak, thin, childish voice, 
 coming from a giant. 
 
 “Well, never mind,” said Gallagher cheerfully, 
 “we’ll leave it at that. We’ll carry on. Before you 
 went down to Aunt Betty’s, Mulholland saw you in a 
 
 222 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 fish-and-chip shop, treating a crowd of people to a 
 free meal. He said you spent about a pound there. 
 Two pounds, three pounds, two pounds, one pound. 
 . . . Well! You certainly were in a generous mood. 
 American sailors are paid well of course. Throwing 
 money about in all directions, eh? Like a million- 
 aire! But of course that’s your own business. We 
 are simply trying to get at the bottom of the business 
 we have in hand. That business is simply this: 
 WHO INFORMED ON YOUR PAL FRANCIS JOSEPH 
 
 McPhillip?” 
 
 Gallagher uttered the sentence slowly and in a loud 
 voice, looking closely at Gypo as he did so. Gypo 
 started. His lips opened wide. But he remained 
 silent. His lips moved, forming the words Gal- 
 lagher had uttered, silently. 
 
 Gallagher watched the movement of Gypo’s lips 
 with curious detachment. Then he smiled slightly 
 before continuing. 
 
 “Before that of course,” he continued, “I met you 
 myself in the public-house, in — er — Ryan’s public- 
 house in Titt Street. There was where you told me 
 that funny story about the Rat Mulligan. Ha, ha, 
 ha! Ha, ha, ha! . . .” 
 
 Gallagher suddenly roared with laughter, holding 
 his sides, with his head in the air. Gypo almost 
 leaped from his form. He trembled. 
 
 “Well, of all the stories!” continued Gallagher, 
 pretending to gasp with laughter. “I can’t make out 
 
 223 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 why you told me that story, Gypo. I can’t make it 
 out. Well, there’s no knowing. . . . But we must 
 get on with our own work. Time’s running short 
 and we have some stiff work to do before the night’s 
 over. Some stiff work, Gypo. Well? Before you 
 came into the public-house you were in Francis Mc- 
 Phillip’s house in 44 Titt Street. There again, you 
 seemed to be acting in a very funny way, according 
 to Bartly Mulholland. Of course, I can understand 
 your being stirred up and excited on account of the 
 death of your pal. But still. . . . Do you remem- 
 ber giving Mrs. McPhillip the money that fell out of 
 your pocket on to the kitchen floor? What did you 
 do that for? Eh? Good Lord! You have left a 
 trail of gold after you all the evening. I wish it 
 were as easy to track the man you saw coming out 
 of the Dunboy Lodging House after Frankie. But 
 why did you give that few shillings to Mrs. McPhillip 
 and say it was all the money you had when you knew 
 very well you had a lot more in your pocket at that 
 very moment?” 
 
 “I don’t know,” growled Gypo. 
 
 His voice was no longer weak and childish. He 
 was stiffening again. 
 
 “Maybe you were drunk even then,” suggested 
 Gallagher, almost excitedly, as if he were deliber- 
 ately trying to apologize for Gypo’s absurdities. 
 “Maybe you were drunk. What?” 
 
 224 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 “Didn’t I tell ye before I was drunk,” grunted 
 Gypo. 
 
 “Ha! I knew ye were drunk. Where had you 
 been drinking?” 
 
 “Couldn’t tell ye where, but I know I was drinkin’ 
 with Katie Fox.” 
 
 “Ha! Now we have it,” cried Gallagher, striking 
 the table. 
 
 “Now you got what?” yelled Gypo, panting and 
 leaning forward savagely. He opened his fists out 
 like claws. He spread his feet out ready to spring. 
 “What have ye got, Commandant?” he yelled 
 hoarsely. 
 
 Gallagher took his pistol by the butt and tapped 
 the muzzle slightly on the table three times. The 
 two armed men pointed their revolvers at Gypo’s 
 back. The three judges who had been calmly smok- 
 ing cigarettes started. Mulholland made a slight 
 movement towards the door. 
 
 Then Gypo subsided into his seat loosely. The 
 dreadful fascination of Gallagher’s cold eyes sucked 
 his passion clean out of him. Breathing in a tired 
 way, he sat still. The tension relaxed again. Gal- 
 lagher laid his pistol on the table and smiled. 
 
 “No need to have got excited, Gypo,” he said. “I 
 was just saying that it was when you were drinking 
 with Katie Fox you said you robbed a sailor at the 
 back of Cassidy’s public-house. Maybe she asked 
 
 225 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 you where you got the money out of pure idle curi- 
 osity and you told her that as a joke. We all know 
 what curious creatures women are. That doesn’t 
 matter, though. What does matter is this. Could 
 you remember what time that was? When you were 
 drinking with Katie Fox? What time was it?” 
 
 “I can’t say,” mumbled Gypo stolidly. “I’m 
 drunk. I can’t remember.” 
 
 “Well, now that’s a pity,” said Gallagher. “For 
 it’s very important for us to find out what that time 
 was. If we were able to find out what time that was, 
 then we would surely be able to find out lots more. 
 Let us say it was nine o’clock at that time. Let us 
 say nine. That wouldn’t be far out? Would it be 
 for out, Gypo?” 
 
 “How do I know what time it was?” roared Gypo. 
 ‘Amn’t I tellin’ ye that I was drunk?” 
 
 “Well, now,” continued Gallagher, getting a little 
 more excited, “we have got as far as nine o’clock. 
 We are as far back as nine o’clock.” 
 
 He paused. His face began to light up and his 
 forehead began to wrinkle. His eyes were no longer 
 steely and cold. They became restless points, fiery 
 and full of turbulent activity. They kept roaming 
 over Gypo’s face. His lips, on the contrary, were 
 creased at the corners in a strange, dry smile. His 
 voice was laughing and at a slightly higher and 
 sweeter pitch. 
 
 “Now we have arrived at nine o’clock,” he con- 
 226 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 tinued, “travelling backwards. Great way this for 
 travelling, Gypo. You never know what you are 
 going to bump against without knowing. Any min- 
 ute now we are liable to find something, Gypo. We 
 might in a few moments, even jump on the man that 
 informed on Frankie McPhillip. We might jump 
 on him. Now! Easy there, Gypo. I mean the 
 man you saw tracking Frankie McPhillip out of the 
 Dunboy Lodging House. Could you give the court 
 any idea of the description of that man you saw? 
 You say he was like Mulligan? Do you say he was 
 like Mulligan? Speak, man. Speak, I say,” he 
 roared. 
 
 But Gypo was no longer able to speak. 
 
 A sudden transformation had come over him. As 
 a thunder-storm bursts over a calm sea on a sultry 
 day, rending the oily ocean back and covering it with 
 cavorting, black ridges and white, churning froth, so 
 his body and soul responded to the sudden lightning 
 in Gallagher’s eyes and the ominous crackle of his 
 voice, uttering sugared threats, gambolling devilishly 
 with words. He crumbled away into an immense, 
 flabby, supine mass, that writhed on the wooden 
 form, a tangled heap of limbs lying piled helplessly. 
 His head dropped forward on his chest, swaying from 
 side to side on the pivot of his chin. His eyes sank 
 into their sockets. His face went ashen and still. 
 His legs became lax. His stomach wrinkled up like 
 an unpropped wall collapsing on its own foundations. 
 
 227 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 His whole body shivered and started into awe-inspir- 
 ing movement, monstrous and inhuman, revolting as 
 a spectacle of degrading vice and yet pitiful in its 
 helplessness. 
 
 All the countless centuries of human development 
 that had left their impression on that body, to make 
 it into the glorious image of a God-like human being, 
 withered away during that time of agony, leaving 
 only a chaotic collection of limbs writhing and 
 strange visions racing over his convulsing features. 
 
 The sight was fearsome even to the callous men 
 that surrounded him. Even their hardened souls 
 saw a vision of a strange life just then, an unknown 
 and unexpected phantom that comes to some once in 
 their lives and that never comes to many, the phan- 
 tom of a human soul stripped naked of the covering 
 of civilization, lying naked and horror-stricken, with- 
 out help, without hope of mercy. They forgot for 
 the moment their hatred of him. They forgot that 
 this helpless, shapeless mass of humanity was a 
 menace to their lives. They forgot that he was a 
 viper they must crush. They only knew at that mo- 
 ment, that he was a poor, weak human being like 
 themselves, a human soul, weak and helpless in suffer- 
 ing, shivering in the toils of the eternal struggle of 
 the human soul with pain. 
 
 Their mouths opened wide. Their eyes grew soft. 
 Some made unconscious movements with their hands, 
 others with their feet, unconscious movements of 
 
 228 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 which their minds were not aware. For their minds, 
 disciplined by the corroding influence of hatred, sat 
 still and indifferent. 
 
 One man alone revelled in Gypo’s agony. He 
 revelled in it unconsciously. He was no longer con- 
 scious of his emotions. He had become demented, 
 drunk with the fury of his hatred. That man was 
 Gallagher. 
 
 He rose lightly from the table, without a word, 
 pawing the table softly with his hands for support, 
 like a panther finding foothold for a spring. His 
 lean, glossy, sallow face was lit with a glow of 
 passionate eagerness, like a lover approaching his 
 beloved. But it was not the pure, resplendent eager- 
 ness of love. It was the eagerness of the preying 
 beast about to spring. The lips laughed, thin, 
 wrinkled, red lips drawn upwards and downwards 
 from the set, white teeth. The eyes glittered. The 
 forehead twitched. The hands trembled. The 
 whole body shivered slightly, with those minute 
 shivers that pass down the side of a setter when he 
 stands poised over his prey. He rose gradually from 
 the table. He stepped over his chair with his right 
 foot, to avoid moving the chair. He released his 
 body from contact with the table and the chair. 
 His eyes were fixed on Gypo’s face. He stood 
 crouching. His head was swung forward, almost on 
 a level with his stooping shoulders. He groped with 
 his right hand on the table for his pistol. His fingers 
 
 229 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 found the butt. Slowly they embraced it. The 
 forefinger sought the trigger and found it. He lifted 
 the pistol from the table. He brought it with a 
 sharp movement to his hip. Its muzzle pointed at 
 Gypo’s chest. He took one short pace forward. 
 
 Gypo uttered a sharp yell and put his two hands 
 to his face, shielding his eyes. But he took them 
 away again almost immediately. They dropped to 
 his sides. He must look at Gallagher’s eyes. He 
 could not remain hidden from those eyes. They 
 burned into his flesh unless he looked at them with 
 his own. 
 
 Gallagher spoke. His voice was almost inaudible. 
 It was soft and sweet like a girl’s voice. 
 
 “As you seem to have lost your voice,” he whis- 
 pered, “I had better tell you myself who that man 
 was. There’s no need to describe him for the court. 
 The court can see the man for themselves. I’m 
 going to tell the court the very name of the informer 
 that betrayed his comrade, Francis Joseph McPhillip, 
 I’m going to point out the informer with my own 
 hand. That is the man,” he cried suddenly, with 
 terrific force, turning to the judges and pointing his 
 pistol at Gypo.’ “Comrades, the informer is Gypo 
 Nolan, who is sitting there on that form.” 
 
 He had scarcely finished when Gypo uttered a 
 muffled scream like a dumb animal in mortal agony. 
 He tumbled forward to the stone floor. He frothed 
 
 230 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 at the mouth. He reached out his trembling hands 
 towards Gallagher. 
 
 “Commandant,” he cried, “I didn’t know what I 
 was doin’. I declare to God I didn’t know what I 
 was doin’. Can’t ye see what I mane?” He raised 
 his voice to a scream and he kept dragging himself 
 forward over the floor towards Gallagher’s feet. 
 Then he struggled to his hands and knees. He 
 stretched out his hands on either side, panting: “Is 
 there no man here to tell him why I did it? I can’t 
 tell him. My head is sore. I can’t tell him. Com- 
 mandant, Commandant, you an’ me, Commandant. 
 We’ll make a plan, the two of us . . . uh-r-r-r. . . .” 
 
 His voice sang into an inarticulate jabber as his 
 hands clutched Gallagher’s boots and he sank again 
 prone to the ground. His thick lips that tried to kiss 
 Gallagher’s boots were imprinting kisses on the stone 
 flags. Gallagher kicked away the clutching hands 
 and called out sharply: 
 
 “Take him to the cell and place him under close 
 guard.” 
 
 Immediately the four armed men rushed forward 
 and bent down to seize Gypo. But as soon as they 
 touched him, he stiffened. He immediately rose 
 with them to his feet, with an accession of unac- 
 countable strength. He shook the four men off with 
 a shrug of his whole body. Then he was about to 
 crouch to rush at Gallagher, when the four of them 
 
 231 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 flung themselves upon him again with a simultaneous 
 cry. He swayed for a moment on bent thighs, 
 reeling under the impact of the four bodies, two of 
 them on his back, two gripping him about the waist. 
 Then he took a fierce, taut step forward with his 
 right foot, gasping as he did so. He planted the 
 boot on the floor with a ringing sound and then 
 jerked himself backwards. The two men who had 
 landed on his back, flung their arms around his 
 neck and swayed, banging their heads together, their 
 legs flying adrift. A cry arose: “Overpower him. 
 Help! Help!” 
 
 The three judges moved back from the table and 
 stood against the wall, undecided whether to run for 
 safety, or to rush to the attack. 
 
 Mulholland pulled at Gallagher’s arm excitedly. 
 
 “Will I fire, Commandant?” he whispered. 
 
 “Don’t shoot,” murmured Gallagher in a dazed, 
 sleepy voice. He was staring at the struggling men 
 with a sad smile on his face, as if he were dreaming. 
 “Don’t shoot. He’s not sentenced yet. Don’t fire, 
 I tell you.” 
 
 Then Mulholland ran crouching and threw himself 
 at Gypo’s legs, trying to encompass them with his 
 arms. There were now five men hanging on to Gypo. 
 He was like Laocoon, entwined with snakes. He 
 stood bolt upright, with every muscle on his body 
 knotted. 
 
 Then he lurched away to the right towards the 
 232 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 door, with that human cargo, unmoored and swinging 
 by the sudden lurch, clashing with soft thuds, in a 
 panting mass. He was brought within three paces 
 of the door by the lurch. He saw the door. With 
 an immense wrench that made his biceps crack, he 
 shook the men from off his back and neck. They 
 slithered downwards with a scratching sound of their 
 nails clawing his clothes. They clung round his 
 hips. Then he growled and stooped down to man- 
 handle the men that clung to his legs. His grop- 
 ing hands clutched Mulholland’s hair. His fingers 
 groped downwards, seeking the throat to garrotte 
 him, when a mad rush of feet startled him. He 
 looked up. 
 
 They were rushing at him through the doorway. 
 He saw them for a moment, a number of flashing 
 eyes, and set lips and clawing hands, rushing at 
 him. Then he dived headlong at his new enemies. 
 He forced them backwards in a mass into the door- 
 way. There they all fell, amid yells and hissing 
 curses and shrieks of pain. Then Gypo’s great boots 
 stuck out of the pile in the centre, while Mulholland’s 
 grinning, sallow face peered up between them. 
 
 When they cleared away the jam of human bodies 
 from him he was exhausted. Four men pinioned his 
 arms behind his back. Then he was dragged along 
 the passage into the prison cell. They loosed him 
 and threw him in. They bolted the door. 
 
 233 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 A t eleven minutes p ast three Gypo was 
 condemned to death. The three judges 
 went away, leaving Gallagher in charge of 
 the execution of the sentence . 
 
 At eighteen minutes past three Mulholland entered 
 the inquiry room, with the three men who had been 
 detailed to carry out the sentence passed on the 
 prisoner. They stood to attention in front of the 
 table at which Gallagher was sitting. Gallagher read 
 to them the decision of the court. Then he gave 
 them their orders. 
 
 “Comrade Mulholland,” he said, “will be in charge. 
 When I leave this room you will cast lots in the usual 
 manner. You will then take the prisoner in the 
 motor-van to any part of the mountain road, about 
 half-way between Killakee and Glencree. There is 
 bog on either side of the road. At any spot in that 
 locality, you will be at least two miles from the 
 nearest house. Execute the sentence there. Bury 
 the body some distance from the road. Just drop it 
 into a pool of bog water. When you have finished 
 the job go straight ahead across the mountain to En- 
 niskerry and come back to the city by another route. 
 There are several. You can choose the most con- 
 
 234 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 venient. Report to me at head-quarters as soon as 
 you come back, Bartly. I will wait for you there. 
 Carry on, comrades. Get the prisoner away as 
 quickly as possible. Use force if necessary to pre- 
 vent him from creating a disturbance, but you must 
 on no account execute the sentence until you get to 
 the mountains.” 
 
 Gallagher left the room. He went across the pas- 
 sage to the room where Mary McPhillip was sitting 
 alone. All the armed men were gathered in the 
 guardroom at the foot of the stairs. Tommy Con- 
 nor had come in now. He was explaining something 
 to them in a hoarse voice. Two men were stationed 
 outside the door of the cell. The sentry paced up 
 and down the passage again. 
 
 Gallagher sat down on the wooden form beside 
 Mary McPhillip. He did not look at her. He 
 stared at the floor. His forehead twitched. His 
 face was very drawn. 
 
 “We have discovered the informer, Mary,” he said 
 in a low voice. “Your brother will be shortly 
 avenged. It was Gypo Nolan who betrayed him.” 
 
 There was silence. Gallagher had uttered the 
 last sentence dramatically, like a tremendous revela- 
 tion. But Mary did not speak. He looked at her. 
 
 “Mary,” he said again, a little louder. “It was 
 Gypo Nolan who informed on your brother.” 
 
 She shuddered and looked at him sadly in the 
 gloom. 
 
 235 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 “I knew that,” she said, “all along. Poor fellow.” 
 
 “What?” he gasped, staring at her. 
 
 “What are you going to do with him, Dan?” she 
 asked, almost inaudibly. “I hope you’re not . . .” 
 She stopped. 
 
 Gallagher looked at her sharply, in wonder, sus- 
 piciously, as if he had suddenly proved to himself 
 that all his calculations had been wrong about some- 
 thing. 
 
 “Surely what, Mary?” he said at length, almost 
 timorously. 
 
 “You’re not going to kill him,” she said. “That 
 would only be another murder, added to . . . to the 
 other. It wouldn’t help the dead. Lord have 
 mercy on him.” 
 
 “Murder!” ejaculated Gallagher dreamily, as if he 
 had heard the word for the first time in his life and 
 he were reflecting on its significance, incredulously 
 like a philosopher confronted unexpectedly by a 
 stupendous superstition. Then his nostrils expanded 
 and his face hardened into anger, as he realized, her 
 meaning and her attitude towards the sentence that 
 was about to be passed on Gypo. “Murder, did 
 you say? Great Scott! Do you call it murder 
 to wipe out a serpent that has betrayed your 
 brother? Where is your . . . ? Do you call your- 
 self an Irishwoman? What? Good Lord! I don’t 
 know what to make of it. What . . . ? Good 
 Heavens!” 
 
 236 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 “Listen to me, Dan,” she said, sobbing; “for God’s 
 sake, listen to me before you do this. Listen. I 
 didn’t know until now how awful it is. I was foolish 
 the way I talked at home this evening when all the 
 people were there. I was so mad the way father was 
 talking that I thought I could shoot the man that in- 
 formed on Frankie myself. But it would be murder, 
 Dan, just the same as any other murder. And ” 
 
 “Oh, hang it!” snapped Gallagher. 
 
 “Dan,” she whispered, “don’t do it, for my sake. 
 I love you. Don’t do it, for my sake and I’ll do 
 anything you want me. I feel I’m the cause of this.” 
 
 “Mary, do you love me?” whispered Gallagher ex- 
 citedly, panting as he seized her right hand in both 
 of his. He bent towards her. “Say it again. Say 
 you love me.” 
 
 But he drew back immediately, with a strange 
 and unnatural presence of mind. He was afraid that 
 the passing sentry might see him. 
 
 Tears were rolling down Mary’s cheeks. She 
 looked away towards the doorway. She kept silent. 
 Gallagher leaned back from her, watching her face 
 intently. He looked at her from under his bunched 
 eyebrows. Ilis lips were set firmly. His forehead 
 convulsed. He appeared to be struggling with a 
 savage passion and at the same time struggling to 
 think coherently on the intellectual plane. He was 
 trying to probe the movements of her mind so that he 
 might conquer it with his mind. He wanted to con- 
 
 237 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 quer her mind and make her subject to him, to make 
 her his mate on his own terms. He told himself that 
 he was doing this, so that she might help him for the 
 conquest of power. He refused to admit to himself 
 that he was inspired by passion. He despised pas- 
 sion. 
 
 The silence was very peculiar and tense. Mary 
 was conscious of it. But Gallagher was not con- 
 scious of it. Then Mary spoke. She talked rapidly 
 without looking at him. She talked in an irritated 
 tone. 
 
 “Take me out of this place immediately, Dan,” 
 she said. “I was mad to come here with you. I 
 had no business to come here atall. Also, if you were 
 a gentleman you wouldn’t ask me to come. What I 
 said just now about loving you was not true. I only 
 said it trying to persuade you not to murder that 
 man. Before, when I used to read in the papers 
 about a man being shot, I used to think it was right, 
 but it’s a different thing when a man you know does 
 a think like that. Frankie killed a man too, Lord 
 have mercy on him. Oh, God, have pity on us all.” 
 She became slightly hysterical. “Why can’t we have 
 peace? Why must we be killing one another? 
 Why 
 
 ““Hush! Keep quiet. Keep quiet.” 
 
 “Isn’t it cruel, Dan?” 
 
 She let her head fall on her hands. Her body 
 shook with silent sobs. 
 
 238 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 Gallagher stared at her dreamily. 
 
 “I will let her alone now,” he thought. “The logi- 
 cal sequence of this outburst will be this. Her mind 
 will wheel around to the other extreme if I keep quiet 
 and don’t irritate her by attempting to convince her 
 that I am right. Her terror and her moral excite- 
 ment will exhaust themselves and go to sleep. Then 
 she will become aware of her strange surroundings, 
 mentally, in a different way. When her mind be- 
 comes awake and normally acute again, she will see 
 me, this place and what’s going to be done with Gypo, 
 in an opposite light. When her mind is groping 
 about in this new attitude it will be easy for me to 
 influence her. I think I’m right. At least it always 
 held good, that rule. I remember the struggle I had 
 with Sean Conroy. But women are supposed to be 
 different from men a lot psychologically. But I have 
 to chance that. It would be suicidal to interfere 
 with her now. That’s certain. Still . . . I’m not 
 sure of myself with her somehow. . . . It’s not like 
 the others. And . . .” 
 
 Again his passion surged upwards. He sat with- 
 out thought, fighting it, squeezing his palms together, 
 with his eyes on her bent neck. 
 
 239 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 
 W hen Gallagher left the inquiry room, 
 Mulholland went silently to a form and 
 sat down. The three men stood nervously 
 in front of the table watching him. They watched 
 him intently, in silence, as if each movement he made 
 was fraught with grave consequences to themselves. 
 
 He took three matches from a box and placed them 
 beside him on the form. He handled them slowly 
 and deliberately, with a serious contemplative ex- 
 pression on his face, like an old fisherman baiting his 
 hooks under the admiring glances of a party of tour- 
 ists. Then he took out a clasp knife and opened it. 
 He cut a piece off one match. He put the knife back 
 into his pocket. 
 
 Then, suddenly, he cleared his throat with a noise 
 that sounded enormous in the silence. The three 
 men started. They looked at one another fearfully, 
 as if each had been caught by the others in the com- 
 mission of an indecency. 
 
 Mulholland rose calmly and approached them, 
 holding the three matches on his open palm. With- 
 out speaking he pointed to them. Two long and one 
 short. They all examined them. Right. Each 
 
 240 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 nodded his head solemnly. Not a word. Mul- 
 holland nodded and marched away to the far end of 
 the room. They did not follow him now with their 
 eyes. They stared painfully at the floor. 
 
 The tallest of them was a docker called Peter 
 Hackett. He was a fair-haired young giant, slim 
 and lean faced, with sleepy blue eyes and a gentle 
 mouth. His great bony hands were thickly covered 
 with long white hairs. He stood with his arms 
 folded on his chest, one leg thrust forward, his eyes 
 wide open and strained, his forehead wrinkled. He 
 was only twenty-two. This was the first time he had 
 been chosen for an affair of this sort. It was par- 
 ticularly strange and odious to him, because he was 
 a good-natured soul, loved by all on the quays where 
 he worked. He had no conception of politics or of 
 any problem other than hurling, football, horse rac- 
 ing and pitch and toss, which he played all Sunday 
 afternoon on the Canal bank with his cronies. He 
 often lost his whole week’s wages playing pitch and 
 toss. On these occasions, when he went home to his 
 young wife penniless, he would first of all dance 
 around the kitchen in a fit of rage and perhaps break 
 a thing or two, threatening to blow Kitty’s brains 
 out if she said a word. Then his anger would sud- 
 denly evaporate, to be followed by a fit of sobbing. 
 During this fit he sat by the fire with his head in his 
 hands, moaning and begging Kitty to forgive him. 
 His wife always felt exalted when these outbursts oc- 
 
 241 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 curred, because the excitement of the quarrel and 
 Peter’s kisses, which lasted far into the night after- 
 wards, were a welcome break in the dreary monotony 
 of everyday life as a docker’s wife, scouring, cooking, 
 washing, with two children to look after on a docker’s 
 wages. 
 
 Peter had no imagination. He lacked the refined 
 conscience and sense of injustice that attracts most 
 gentle natures like his towards a revolutionary move- ^ 
 ment. He was not the stuff of which the other sort of 
 revolutionary is made either. He belonged to the 
 Organization simply because the rest of “the boys” 
 belonged to it, and out of fanatical hero-worship for 
 Commandant Dan Gallagher. 
 
 Dart Flynn, on the other hand, was designed by 
 nature as a revolutionary, a man to stalk ahead of 
 the bulk of humanity, grimly destroying obstacles, 
 disturbing the sluggish existence of the herd, ter- 
 rifying the contented ones into activity, born with a 
 curse upon his brow, anathema to the mass of beings 
 who always seek tranquillity and peace at any price. 
 He was dour, dark visaged, built like the base of an 
 oak tree, almost square. His body and face were 
 fleshy and jealous of movement. His eyes were 
 small. They moved horizontally. He was clean 
 shaven, with a pink and white complexion, in spite 
 of the fact that he was thirty-five and lived a hard 
 life as a carter. In company, he hardly ever ex- 
 pressed an opinion on politics, religion, or on any 
 
 242 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 other of the fundamental things that are discussed 
 with avidity by revolutionaries who carry their lives 
 in their hands. But in the secrecy of his own soul 
 he thought deeply on these matters. In his little 
 bare room in a lodging-house in Capel Street, he had 
 several works on philosophy and economics. He 
 had also worked out an amazing system of philoso- 
 phy, based on the premise that each human being 
 shares his soul with several different animals. The 
 man who could discover and have constant inter- 
 course with these animals would be supremely happy 
 and immortal. 
 
 Flynn had no moral sense. He hated all human 
 beings who were not Communists. He loved all 
 children and animals. He gave most of his wages to 
 the hungry little ruffians in the street. He had no 
 relatives or dependents. He was an old member of 
 the Organization, highly respected for his courage, 
 his fidelity and his taciturn habits. 
 
 The third man, Laurence Curley, was of a totally 
 different type from both his companions. He was 
 also the most nervous and timorous. He was twenty- 
 eight, pale faced, red haired, with a tall, thin frame, 
 slightly consumptive-looking, on account of his hol- 
 low chest and stooping shoulders. His father had 
 been a doctor in a country dispensary district. He 
 had received a good education, but he early grew 
 dissatisfied with life and refused to study for the 
 Bar as his father wished. Instead he took a job 
 
 243 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 in Dublin as a clerk, in order that he might plunge 
 into the revolutionary movement. 
 
 The theory of Revolutionary Communism inter- 
 ested him far more than working for a revolution. 
 He gradually became a crank, hated by everybody. 
 He was always finding fault and reading or discuss- 
 ing dull works on Socialism. His views were always 
 the most extreme and blood-thirsty. He used to 
 whisper excitedly, whenever he met a stranger who 
 did not know him yet, or when the least industrial 
 disturbance occurred: 
 
 “The red flag will be hoisted any minute. Wait till 
 you see. Then blood will spill. Wait till you see. 
 Justice and liberty are bourgeois watchwords. The 
 proletarian watchwords are revenge and bread. The 
 proletariat knows how to deal out their deserts to the 
 oppressors.” 
 
 He had always this sort of patter. 
 
 Now, however, the three of them, so different in 
 essential characteristics, had reached a common level 
 of emotion. The silence of the night, the phantom- 
 filled cellars, the illegality and danger of the contem- 
 plated act, the torturing uncertainty of the choice, 
 filled them with such delirious emotions that they 
 were beside themselves. They were not afraid. 
 They were beyond fear, on to a distant level of emo- 
 tion, where the common impulses, that agitate the 
 hearts of men, are unknown. 
 
 Then Mulholland approached with the matches 
 244 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 arranged in his hand, so that their red heads alone 
 were visible. 
 
 “Who’ll draw first?” he said carelessly, standing in 
 front of the group. 
 
 After a moment’s pause Flynn came forward hur- 
 riedly. He stretched out a fleshy hand, fumbled 
 awkwardly with the matches and then pulled one. 
 
 They all strained eagerly to look. It was a long 
 match. Everybody sighed. 
 
 “Next,” said Mulholland. 
 
 Curley and Hackett looked at one another ex- 
 citedly. Then each spoke. 
 
 “You go first.” 
 
 “No, you go first.” 
 
 “Go ahead. I don’t mind drawing the last.” 
 
 “What’s the difference? You’re nearest. Draw.” 
 
 “Why should I? It’s your turn. You draw.” 
 
 “Come on,” snarled Mulholland, “one of you draw. 
 We have no time.” 
 
 They both made a movement towards the matches. 
 Then each stopped to let the other advance. Their 
 hands and legs were jerky. They stared at one 
 another with hatred. 
 
 “Come on,” hissed Mulholland again. “Didn’t ye 
 hear the Commandant’s orders, that we were to get 
 outa the place as soon as possible? Are ye afraid 
 or what?” 
 
 “Oh no,” cried both men together in an off-hand 
 tone. 
 
 245 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 They both rushed at the matches. They tussled 
 for them. 
 
 “Keep back now. It’s my turn.” 
 
 “Keep back, you. You weren’t so quick before. 
 Let me draw.” 
 
 “No, I won’t. I was here first.” 
 
 “For goodness’ sake,” cried Mulholland, “ye pair 
 o’ babies. Will I have to pull me gat on ye?” 
 
 The two of them stood still, looking at Mulholland 
 dazedly. 
 
 “It’s against the rules,” continued Mulholland with 
 a great sense of importance, “but I’m goin’ to call ye 
 in the order o’ yer rank. You draw first, Comrade 
 Curley.” 
 
 Curley’s thin fingers shot out instantly. He drew 
 the match. It was a long one. He gasped. Then 
 he burst into a thin laugh. 
 
 “Comrade Hackett.” 
 
 Hackett stumbled forward. He reached for the 
 short match that Mulholland held out to him with a 
 strange smile. 
 
 “It’s your shot, comrade,” whispered Mulholland. 
 
 Hackett grasped the match and crushed it into 
 fragments immediately. He threw the little bundle 
 away in terror. He rubbed his palms slowly. Then 
 he struck his right coat pocket suddenly with his 
 hand. He laughed. 
 
 “Good Lord!” he blubbered, “I thought I’d lost 
 me penknife.” 
 
 246 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 
 F or ten minutes Gypo lay perfectly still 
 in the cell, after the door was bolted. He 
 lay on his back. His head and neck were 
 buttressed into an upright position by a square block 
 of stone that jutted from the floor, by the wall 
 farthest from the door. His feet were stretched out, 
 wide apart. One hand lay on his right hip, palm 
 upwards, with the fingers bent inwards, as if he had 
 fallen asleep clawing something. The other hand 
 lay across his eyes. He drew very deep breaths at 
 long intervals. His face was perfectly at peace. It 
 was bruised slightly around the mouth and on the 
 cheek-bones. Each feature was impassive, like the 
 features of a carved image. The glossy skin, the 
 humps, the eyebrows that were like snouts, the thick 
 Ethiopian lips, attained a majesty during that ten 
 minutes of abnormal rest, a majesty that was not 
 so apparent while they were in movement, respond- 
 ing to the strange impulses of his mind. 
 
 Gypo rested, exhausted, while he was being con- 
 demned to death. It was a dead rest, like the rest of 
 a child in the womb before birth, sucking strength all 
 round for the savage struggle with life that will soon 
 
 247 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 commence. Every organ and tissue and muscle was 
 straining for a renewal of strength. 
 
 When blundering reason flees, instinct, that is fun- 
 damental and unerring, rushes to the defence of life. 
 
 At twelve minutes past three, one minute after he 
 had been condemned to death, Gypo moved. He 
 opened his eyes and closed the right hand that lay 
 palm upwards on the ground. He clenched the hand 
 rigidly until the wrist joint snapped with the tension. 
 Then he took the other hand away from his eyes and 
 dropped it to his bosom. He moved his eyes around 
 from side to side, slowly, suspiciously, blinking and 
 listening intently. 
 
 The cell was pitch black. Only at one point was 
 there a speck of light. There was a dim, oblong 
 patch of light hanging slantwise in the darkness some 
 distance to his left front. That was the aperture 
 near the top of the door. It did not penetrate the 
 darkness of the cell. It merely hung there, ob- 
 scurely and uselessly, like a foolish suggestion. All 
 round was pitch dark. Gypo shivered. 
 
 He was not afraid. No. He did not feel at all in 
 the ordinary sense of the word. But he was im- 
 mediately fully conscious, as soon as he moved, of all 
 that had happened before he had been thrown into 
 the cell. Still more peculiar, he was quite calm and 
 collected about everything. The darkness consoled 
 him. He felt at home in it. It concealed him. 
 He felt immensely big and strong in the dark- 
 
 248 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 ness. There was nothing in his immediate neigh- 
 bourhood but a darksome void that his personality 
 overpowered. He could bellow and his voice would 
 resound through that darkness indefinitely. There 
 would be no resistance. There was no limit to the 
 darkness, no wall, no horizon, no end. He was en- 
 compassed by it, sheathed in it. It wound round 
 and round him. It was an impenetrable coat of mail, 
 without weight, without thickness, intangible. 
 
 Beyond it somewhere were his enemies. It came 
 between him and them. Ha! 
 
 He gathered himself up with a sudden spring. He 
 got to his hands and knees. Several joints snapped 
 as he did so. His bruised body had grown stiff, 
 lying motionless on the stone floor. Just as he lay 
 that way on his hands and knees, he heard a rattle at 
 the door. Immediately he threw himself down again 
 and pretended to be asleep. But he fell so that his 
 eyes were toward the oblong patch of light. He 
 knew what had rattled. It was the sentry having a 
 look at him. An electric torch was thrust through 
 the aperture. It rested on him for a moment or two. 
 Then it was withdrawn. 
 
 During the couple of moments that the torch-light 
 had flooded the cell Gypo’s eyes were busy. They 
 had darted around. Yes. The walls were hopeless. 
 He knew that of course. He had himself guarded a 
 prisoner in this same cell, a condemned prisoner 
 whom he and McPhillip and Jem Linnet, the book- 
 
 249 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 maker’s clerk, had afterwards brought out in a car. 
 He knew the whole routine. Perhaps that knowledge 
 was responsible for his calm, partly responsible. 
 Nothing was uncertain in the near future. In a few 
 minutes they would come for him. Once in the car 
 it would be impossible to escape. 
 
 All right. His only chance was in the cell. Ha! 
 That was why he was calm and collected. After all, 
 it was neither the darkness nor his knowledge of what 
 was destined to happen that made him calm. Mc- 
 Phillip had at last made a plan. The door ... the 
 door . . . the door! 
 
 “Gypo,” he had said one night in Cassidy’s when 
 he was drunk, “if we ever get . . . ye know what 
 I mean, Gyp . . . click . . . you know ... ye 
 needn’t worry. I can manage that cell easy. Only 
 I’d need you. I’m too small. Listen.” 
 
 “I’ll do it, Frankie,” mumbled Gypo to himself ex- 
 citedly, as he crawled along the floor towards the 
 door. 
 
 He moved like a bear on his hands and knees, with 
 his head down and his haunches high in the air. He 
 moved noiselessly until he reached the door. He felt 
 along the edge of the wall and then drew himself 
 gradually to his feet. For a moment he toyed with 
 the idea of taking off his boots, but he could not 
 remember that Frankie had said anything about that. 
 He decided to leave them on. He reached up with 
 
 250 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 his hands. He strained them to their full length be- 
 fore he reached the top of the stone ledge over the 
 door. 
 
 Drawing a deep breath he hoisted up his body, 
 using his biceps as levers. . . . His biceps swelled 
 and knotted and snapped. . . . His body rose 
 smartly and without apparent effort. In an amazing 
 way he swung around his legs from the hips and 
 landed his body gently on the ledge, resting on the 
 right side of his chest and stomach. The stone ledge 
 was no more than six inches wide. More than half 
 his body rested on the empty air, as it lay along the 
 ledge. But he was as cool as if he were standing 
 loosely on the broad, firm earth. He was acting on 
 the plan he and McPhillip had rehearsed. His body 
 performed the movements without his mind exercis- 
 ing any control, either of guidance or of warning, 
 warning against danger that is called fear. 
 
 After a slight pause, he leaned his weight on his 
 hands and rolled his body around in a reckless move- 
 ment. His legs shot into the air about two feet. He 
 stood poised on his hands for two seconds, as if he 
 were going to stand on his head. Then he lowered 
 his right leg. He brought it up to his hands. 
 Slowly, with snapping gasps, he balanced himself on 
 the right leg and stood up straight. 
 
 He stood straight in the solid darkness for a mo- 
 ment. He breathed twice rapidly. Then he groped 
 
 251 
 
TH E INFORMER 
 
 upwards for the roof. He found it about three 
 inches above his head. He pawed the stones hur- 
 riedly, searching. He couldn’t find what he wanted. 
 It should be there. Mother of Mercy! He pawed 
 out farther. Nothing yet. Sweat stood out on his 
 forehead, suddenly, as if his body had been wrung. 
 Savage anger gained control of him. He bared his 
 lips and distended his eyes. His last hope gone? 
 Had they taken it away during the last six months? 
 He reached out one inch farther. Too far. 
 
 With a muffled gasp, he hurtled forward from the 
 ledge. His hands scraped along the roof with a rasp- 
 ing sound. Then, just as they fell in pursuit of the 
 falling body, the fingers of the right hand closed on 
 an iron ring. They closed on it like a vice. The 
 shoulder muscles snapped. Gypo swung across the 
 floor, brought up with a grunt, jerked and swung 
 back again, suspended from the iron ring by his 
 right hand. 
 
 When he steadied himself, he changed hands on 
 the ring and groped about with his right hand, until 
 he found a hole in the roof about three inches away 
 from the ring. That was the hole of the trap-door, 
 through which the wine had been let down into the 
 ‘ cellar from the garden. He gripped the ring with 
 both hands and swung up with his legs, until they 
 found the far side of the hole. He jammed both feet 
 against the side of the hole and rested for four sec- 
 
 252 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 onds, breathing deeply. His knees were bent up- 
 wards. 
 
 He reached up into the hole with his right foot. 
 The foot reached the oaken door that lay across the 
 mouth. It had been fastened with leather hinges, 
 but these had worn away and they had not been re- 
 newed since the house became deserted. Several 
 inches of earth had collected on it. Gypo pushed 
 against it and made no impression on this mass of 
 earth and rubbish that covered it. He took another 
 rest and then pushed with all his might. He raised 
 it suddenly, with a sucking sound, about three 
 inches. A mass of dirt and earth fell down with 
 a swish. It landed on the floor beneath with a 
 showery thud. The noise terrified Gypo. The 
 sentries outside the door would hear it. 
 
 In a furious rage, he kicked with all his might 
 and sent the door flying away from the hole. A 
 whole load of earth fell with a rush and a gust of 
 cold night air came with it, with equal rapidity, 
 ferociously, as if it had been waiting a long time to 
 attack. 
 
 In spite of the blinding dirt and the freezing air, 
 Gypo stuck his legs through the hole immediately 
 and clutched the garden surface with his heels. 
 Then he let go one hand off the ring and gripped the 
 side of the hole. He hurt his collar-bone badly as 
 he did so. Now his body was secure in the hole. 
 
 253 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 He let go the other hand, supporting himself on the 
 thigh muscles that gripped the sides of the hole 
 until the second hand and his head came into the 
 hole. Then he scrambled through on to the garden. 
 He bounded to his feet and hurtled forward on his 
 face. 
 
 Two shots had thundered through the hole as he 
 cleared it. They were after him. He snorted with 
 fright. For a moment he stood still, confused by 
 the din of voices and the rushing feet. Then he 
 darted away headlong through the rubbish towards 
 the house, ten yards away. His only escape lay that 
 way. He entered the house at a bound, through a 
 hole in the kitchen wall. He cleared the kitchen in 
 two strides. He was in the hallway. Flash, flash, 
 bang, bang. Two more shots. His fist floored a 
 tall man. He rammed a second with his head. He 
 floundered through the hall. Bang, bang. They 
 whizzed closely past his right side. He slipped on 
 the flags of the hall as he tried to wheel towards the 
 right wall. He came to his hands and knees. As 
 he rose again a man threw himself upon him, firing 
 as he did so, so closely that Gypo smelt the explo- 
 sion that flashed blindingly by his ear. Missed 
 again. They closed, grappling one another’s bodies, 
 with groping, shifting paws. They tumbled in the 
 doorway. They both rose. Gypo loosed one arm 
 and struck. The other man collapsed without a 
 
 254 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 sound. Gypo dropped him. He fell on his back. 
 It was the Dart Flynn. 
 
 Gypo grunted, bounded to his feet and wheeled 
 to the right, into the open air. With a gurgling 
 laugh, he bounded away into the darkness. He was 
 away, swallowed by the night. 
 
 255 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 
 W hen Gallagher heard the first shot, 
 he started to his feet angrily. He thought 
 that his orders had been disobeyed and 
 that they had shot the prisoner before taking him to 
 the mountains. But even as he stood up, his anger 
 changed to terror. He heard the rushing of feet and 
 the babble of shouting voices, calling excitedly, in a 
 panic: 
 
 “He’s escaped. He’s escaped.” 
 
 “The stairs. The stairs. Up the stairs, quick.” 
 Mary McPhillip screamed. Gallagher did not 
 heed her. For three seconds his body was numbed 
 with fear. He could not move a muscle. His lips 
 blubbered. He was like an exhausted man about to 
 have a heart attack. He stood unstably, like an up- 
 rooted tree, balancing for its fall. Mary jumped up 
 and clung to him. He did not look at her. Then 
 Mulholland rushed in. He was livid with fear. 
 
 “He’s escaped, Commandant,” he gasped; “he’s 
 gone.” 
 
 Then Gallagher shook himself violently, thrusting 
 Mary from him rudely. Uttering a volley of almost 
 
 256 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 inarticulate oaths, he drew his pistol and grasped 
 Mulholland by the throat. Mulholland yelled and 
 struggled downwards to his knees. 
 
 “Don’t shoot me, Commandant,” he whined. “It 
 wasn’t my fault. That man is a devil out of hell. 
 There’s a spell on him. Don’t fire for the love of 
 God.” 
 
 “Damn you and God,” snarled Gallagher, hurling 
 him away. 
 
 He rushed out into the hall. 
 
 “After him,” he yelled. “After him. After him.” 
 
 There was nobody to take any notice of him. 
 Everybody was on the street in pursuit of Gypo, 
 except the sentry, who stood uncertainly in the door- 
 way of the empty cell, with his pistol in his hand 
 and his cap turned backwards, terrified, gaping at 
 Gallagher. 
 
 Then a rush of feet came on the stairs. Four men 
 were coming down carrying Flynn between them. 
 
 “Who is that?” cried Gallagher. 
 
 “It’s Flynn, Commandant,” whispered one. 
 
 “His jaw is broken in a jelly,” whispered another. 
 
 They arrived at the bottom of the stairs. Galla- 
 gher glanced at the prostrate, sagging body of Flynn. 
 “Throw him in there on a form at once,” he 
 said. “Mulholland. Come here. Where are those 
 others?” 
 
 “Here they come, Commandant.” 
 
 “There’s no sight of him, Commandant,” gasped 
 
 257 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 Tommy Connor, leaping down the stairs. “We 
 thought we had better come back.” 
 
 “All right,” said Gallagher. “Are you all here 
 now?” 
 
 He spoke in a terribly calm voice now. It was 
 terrifying. Nobody answered for a moment. 
 
 “Hurry on, Peter,” said Connor to somebody that 
 appeared at the top of the stairs. 
 
 It was Hackett. He rushed down, panting, with 
 wild eyes. They were all back again. 
 
 “Who’s responsible for this?” cried Gallagher. 
 
 Nobody answered. He swore and strode away 
 down the passage to the cell. Connor and Mul- 
 holland followed him. The others stood spellbound. 
 Gallagher pushed the sentry out of the way with a 
 curse and entered the cell. He flashed his torch. 
 He saw everything. A cold perspiration started 
 gently around his temples. He shivered. He left 
 the cell followed by the two men. Nobody spoke. 
 They returned to the men at the foot of the stair- 
 way. As Connor passed the room where Mary 
 McPhillip was, he ran in, picked her up from the 
 floor and put her sitting on the form. Then he 
 rushed away to Gallagher. 
 
 Gallagher stood looking at the ground for a few 
 moments, with the men standing around him in si- 
 lence. Then he looked around fiercely at every one. 
 He spoke gently and in a friendly tone. 
 
 “Comrades,” he said, “our lives are at stake. 
 258 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 What’s more, the Organization is in danger. The 
 cause is in danger. Comrades, — that — man — must 
 — be — found. That man must be found if it costs 
 a hundred men. Do you understand?” 
 
 “Yes, Commandant,” cried they all eagerly. 
 
 “Finnigan and Murphy stay here on guard. Do 
 you hear?” 
 
 They clicked their heels in silence. 
 
 “Mulholland, you take the rest with you in the 
 van and try and cut him off from the bridges. He 
 will try and cross the river to the south to get away 
 to the mountains. Get away immediately. Place 
 your men and take up position yourself at the Butt 
 Bridge. I’ll send reinforcements to you there and 
 another officer. Slattery, you get reinforcements. 
 Mobilize ten men from this district. Take them 
 off your own list. Beat it. Quick. Off you go, 
 Bartly. Remember the Cause is at stake. We 
 are lost if that man gets away. He may be making 
 for the police already. Run for your lives.” 
 
 They went up the stairs, rushing with fanatical 
 enthusiasm. In three seconds Gallagher was alone 
 at the foot of the stairs. One sentry took up posi- 
 tion at the top of the stairway. The other man 
 went into the guardroom with Flynn. Mary Mc- 
 Phillip was standing in the doorway of the witnesses’ 
 room, shivering, almost hysterical with fright. 
 
 Gallagher stood for almost a minute, motionless, 
 looking at the stairs, with his eyes almost shut. 
 
 259 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 Then he shuddered and went into the guardroom. 
 The sentry, a red-faced, young grocer’s assistant, 
 was tying a red silk handkerchief around Flynn’s 
 jaws. The only part of Flynn’s face that was visible 
 was his eyes. Gallagher watched the sentry tying 
 the knot at the back of Flynn’s skull. Then he 
 looked into Flynn’s eyes. 
 
 Flynn stared back coldly. Although he was suf- 
 fering agonies of pain from his broken jaw, his eyes 
 betrayed no sign of pain. 
 
 “Did you fire at him, Dart?” cried Gallagher in 
 a whisper. 
 
 Flynn made a slight nodding movement. 
 
 “Did you hit him?” 
 
 Flynn raised his right hand and waved it from 
 side to side, like a marker giving the signal for a 
 washout. Gallagher sighed. 
 
 “Stick it out,” he said coldly. “We’ll get a doctor 
 as soon as the reinforcements come. Can you swal- 
 low a drop of brandy?” 
 
 Flynn nodded. 
 
 “Here’s my flask. Use it.” 
 
 He put the flask into Flynn’s hand. He pressed 
 the hand as he did so. Then he left the guardroom 
 and walked over to Mary McPhillip. 
 
 She left the doorway when she saw him coming. 
 He found her sitting on the form. He stood beside 
 her, looking at the ground, wrapt in thought, grip- 
 ping her shoulder with his right hand. She became 
 
 260 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 terrified at his attitude, at his silence and the look 
 on his face, which she could see dimly in the gloom. 
 His face had become ashen pale. His eyes had sunk 
 and grown glassy. The blood had left his lips. He 
 was continually grinding his back teeth, slowly. 
 
 “Dan,” she whispered at length, “what’s the mat- 
 ter with you?” 
 
 He did not answer for several seconds. Then he 
 started, gasped, and let go her shoulder. He took 
 two paces rapidly towards the door. He halted and 
 put his hand to his forehead. He wheeled about 
 and looked at her curiously. 
 
 “Oh yes,” he said calmly. “I forgot. Excuse 
 me. I was thinking of something and I didn’t hear 
 what you said. Let me see. Yes.” 
 
 He sat down beside her. He took her right hand 
 gently into both his own and began to fondle it, 
 with the soft gentle movements of a cat. He be- 
 gan to speak gently, in a soft, sad voice, looking at 
 the floor in front of him. 
 
 “You’ll have to stay here with me now, Mary,” he 
 said, “until I’m leaving here. Maybe we’ll have to 
 stay here two hours, maybe more. Gypo has es- 
 caped. I can’t move until I get news of him. The 
 prisoner has escaped,” he repeated almost inaudibly. 
 “If he can’t be found it will be the end of me, Mary. 
 He knows so much.” 
 
 Mary turned towards him eagerly and swallowed 
 her breath. Her eyes grew moist and her lips quiv- 
 
 261 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 ered. The gentle tone of his voice went straight to 
 her heart. It drew her towards him, not with the 
 dreadful fascination with which she was drawn to- 
 wards him before, but with a soft, gentle attraction, 
 like what she had imagined love would be. Not the 
 calm, calculating, respectable affection she experi- 
 enced for the man she intended to marry, Joseph 
 Augustine Short, but that tumultuous, devouring 
 passion which she had expected real love to be, the 
 love that was written of in books and poems. Ah! 
 How she could love him like this! Soft and gentle 
 like this! She could approach him and touch him, 
 touch something in him that was soft and gentle 
 and sympathetic and human. He was in danger. 
 Good God ! It was good that he was in danger, if it 
 helped to disclose to her his real self. It had made 
 him weak, this danger, ridding him of the horrid, 
 impenetrable strength, that kept him cruel and cold. 
 If she could have him to herself like this, she would 
 sacrifice even her religion for his love. Aye! She 
 would even forsake God for him like this. 
 
 So she thought, looking at him with tears in her 
 eyes. 
 
 She smoothed his shoulder gently with her hand 
 and whispered to him: 
 
 “Dan,” she said, “you are in danger. Can I help 
 you, Dan? Dan, you know I’d give my life for 
 you.” 
 
 Gallagher turned towards her slowly. 
 
 262 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 “You would, Mary,” he said softly. 
 
 She nodded. He took her suddenly in his arms. 
 
 “You love me, Mary. Say you love me, Mary.” 
 
 “I love you, Dan,” she breathed on his lips. 
 
 They kissed passionately, with strange abandon- 
 ment. Then they sat for a minute, with their cheeks 
 together, hardly conscious of anything but of a 
 strange exaltation that was undefinable. A hot feel- 
 ing of joyous exaltation pervaded their bodies. But 
 it was not the exaltation of love. It was an aban- 
 doned sadness born of grief. The grief of two hu- 
 man souls clinging together for solace. It was beau- 
 tiful and pure like love, that exaltation, born of fear, 
 and of the eternal melancholy of the entramelled 
 Irish soul, struggling in bondage. 
 
 For Mary perhaps, it was almost pure mating love. 
 For she loved that gentle voice, the last remnant of 
 the gentle nature, that had been devoured in the 
 struggle of life and replaced by a cold, callous, am- 
 bitious nature. She loved, but she only loved a 
 phantom, a shy ghost come for an hour of the night, 
 to fly from the dawn. 
 
 But for Gallagher, his caresses were a mask. He 
 had hidden behind his gentle nature for the moment, 
 as behind a mask, to rest and plot. Men like him 
 always lean on women for support in moments of ex- 
 treme danger. 
 
 Even as he sat with her arms about him, with her 
 breathing words of love on his lips, he was thinking, 
 
 263 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 not of her, but of the great danger that confronted 
 him. Would Gypo inform again before he was 
 caught? 
 
 At length, with a low exclamation he got to his 
 feet, releasing himself hurriedly from her embrace. 
 He clenched his fists. 
 
 “Mary,” he said without looking at her, “you see 
 how I need you. I need somebody to talk to, some- 
 body to trust. There is nobody else but you I can 
 trust, Mary. And I don’t know why I trust you.” 
 
 He paused. She was not listening. She was suf- 
 fering a reaction from her exaltation. Why was he 
 talking like this? A lover did not talk like this. 
 He was only thinking of himself. 
 
 “But since the first time I saw you, standing in the 
 crowd with another girl, while I was addressing a 
 strike meeting, I knew I could trust you. I remem- 
 ber thinking as I saw your face, that you were the 
 woman for me. It was queer and I can’t explain it. 
 Something in your face told me that you were my 
 woman. It’s very queer, that. You see thousands 
 of faces every day. There is something queer and 
 mysterious in them all, something suspicious and 
 hostile. Then you see one face that you have been 
 looking for all your life as it were. There is nothing 
 hidden or mysterious in that face. It can hold 
 nothing hidden from you. It’s queer. I haven’t 
 worked it out yet. It’s in the eyes, I think. The 
 eyes are the doors of the mind. But I haven’t 
 
 264 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 worked it out yet. But what am I talking about? 
 It’s a sure sign that I’m worried when I ramble off 
 like this. I talk to myself in my room, for want 
 of a listener, when I’m up against it. I talk all 
 night, sitting up in bed, with a pistol in my hand.” 
 He lowered his voice and smiled with his lips, while 
 his eyes glittered. He looked at her for a moment. 
 “If the boys knew that I get the wind up now 
 and again, they wouldn’t be afraid of me. And 
 then. . . .” He drew his hand across his windpipe. 
 “Sure. That’s what keeps me safe. They are 
 afraid of me. That’s all it is. It’s not love. Oil 
 no. I wouldn’t have it, anyway. There’s nothing 
 like fear. Nobody loves me. Not even that slob- 
 ber of a fellow Haclcett, who stooped down one day 
 on the quays to tie my shoelace. He’d die for me, 
 but only because he believes I’m cold and hard and 
 callous and that I could shoot him dead without a 
 quiver of an eyelid. You see . . . he’s the opposite 
 from . . . There you are, Mary. Good God! I 
 must be very bad to-night. I’m wandering. Mary, 
 does your right knee tremble and you can’t stop it?” 
 
 “Dan, Dan,” cried Mary, seizing his right knee in 
 both her hands, “don’t worry. Don’t worry, Dan.” 
 She began to rub the knee. “That’s nothing. My 
 father often gets it. It’s only nerve tension. A 
 nurse out of the Mater Hospital told me all about it. 
 You can live to be a hundred with it. She says 
 it’s due to tea drinking. But . . . Dan, why are 
 
 265 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 you so hard and cynical all of a sudden about every- 
 thing? Can’t you give it all up and settle down? 
 You said you ” 
 
 “Settle down?” cried Gallagher, jumping to his 
 feet and looking at her fiercely, as if she had sug- 
 gested a heinous crime. “Give it up! How do you 
 mean? Pooh! Women, women, women! You don’t 
 understand that it’s my life. It’s my life, I say. 
 You might as well tell me stop breathing and . . . 
 After all . . .” He seemed to think of something 
 startlingly unexpected, for he looked at her with 
 open lips. He continued, shyly almost, in a scarcely 
 audible voice, as if he were soliloquizing. “After all, 
 you weren’t affected the way I expected you would 
 be. You would never understand. You would 
 never join me in the way . . . Hm! I see.” 
 
 “Now what have I said, Dan?” she whispered 
 nervously, biting her fingers. 
 
 She was terrified that she had lost him . . . yes, 
 in a way, strangely enough, she was terrified at losing 
 his love, as if she had him securely in her possession, 
 as a loving husband for a long time . . . that she 
 had lost him by some foolish phrase. 
 
 “Nothing,” he muttered solidly. 
 
 He crossed his hands on his chest and began to 
 pace up and down once more. It was a long time 
 until he spoke. She tried to get enraged with him 
 and could not do so. She began to pity herself. 
 
 “It’s waiting like this that’s hard,” he said sud- 
 266 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 denly in a whisper. “I don’t mind dying. It’s not 
 that I mind. It’s waiting without a chance of know- 
 ing what’s going to happen. They talk of the brav- 
 ery of those louts that get the V.C. What are they 
 but stupid carrot heads? Theirs is the bravery of 
 the dull-witted ox. A man must be intelligent to be 
 brave. It’s only the intelligent man that can visu- 
 alize danger. If he is brave he never seeks danger, 
 but he seeks dangerous methods of life. You see 
 the difference? Well, it doesn’t matter anyway. I 
 had this all worked out a long time ago so I don’t 
 need to discuss it very much. But this is the point 
 I have to explain now. There is no danger in open 
 warfare. There’s merely death, and death is not 
 dangerous. The Russians proved that. Not re- 
 cently, but in Bielinsky’s time. That is, of course, 
 they proved it in relation to their own needs. But 
 according to my own calculations and discoveries, 
 death brings us back into the great consciousness of 
 the Universe, which is eternal. Therefore death, 
 properly speaking, is not death. It is a second stage 
 of birth. No, that’s quite wrong. I can see where 
 that would lead me. There is neither birth nor 
 death. But . . . All that’s out of the count. We 
 have to tackle a minor question. Obviously it’s a 
 minor question. Now that’s better. Now we see 
 death is not a danger. But defeat is a danger. De- 
 feat by one’s enemies. Not defeat by one’s friends. 
 But of course there are no friends. Friends is a 
 
 267 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 bourgeois word. It has no longer any meaning. So 
 defeat in the true sense means defeat by one’s 
 enemies. It’s synonymous. Well, I face defeat. 
 Therefore. . . Suddenly he waved his right hand 
 in a circular fashion above his head and then pointed 
 it fiercely at the wall to his left. “It’s waiting like 
 this that’s hard,” he cried fiercely. “I’ve been 
 out with a gun many a time. I’ve been shot at. 
 I have two holes in me. That’s nothing. You don’t 
 know what’s happening because you become an an- 
 imal. But waiting is different. You are in com- 
 mand. That’s different. A brain, a mind, a great 
 eye, probing the unknown. But . . .” He stopped 
 suddenly and tittered audibly in his throat. 
 
 “Jesus, Mary and Joseph protect me,” Mary be- 1 
 gan to murmur rapidly to herself. She shut her eyes 
 and tried to think of Heaven. Her mind had sud- 
 denly become void of all sense of knowledge and 
 emotion. She felt an intense cold in every pore of 
 her flesh. As she rambled through the prayer over 
 and over again with her lips, a ridiculous rigmarole 
 of a song went through her mind with a tintillating 
 sound, about, “Piping Tim of Galway.” 
 
 He sat down beside her on the form, bent towards 
 her and kissed her coldly on the forehead. His cold 
 lips remained on her forehead for three seconds. 
 Then he sighed and got to his feet again. He must 
 keep in movement. He must keep talking. He 
 could not stop his brain from thinking at an enor- 
 
 268 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 mous rate and the only way to relieve the congestion 
 was by talking aloud. The formation and enuncia- 
 tion of the words deflected a fraction of the brain 
 forces and liquidated them. Faster, faster, wilder, 
 wilder he must talk, to keep pace with the tremen- 
 dous speed of his heated brain. 
 
 “Where is he now?” he whispered with a kind of 
 cackle in his throat that was like a laugh. “Where 
 is he now? Why can’t we see with the mind, long 
 distances? How very stupid I am after all in spite 
 of my philosophy. He might be in the police station 
 at this very moment, with a big, fat sergeant taking 
 down his statement.” He shuddered and bit his lip. 
 “Good Lord Mary! If you only knew what a state- 
 ment he could make. Ha! ha! He and Francis are 
 the only two men in the Organization who could 
 tell anything worth while. And Francis is dead.” 
 
 He paused. Mary bit her teeth, dispelled the 
 tintillating rigmarole of a song and began another 
 prayer, one to Our Lady of Perpetual Succour. 
 
 “Ye see, Gypo was so useful. There were things 
 he could do that no other man could do. Not so 
 much by his immense strength, as on account of 
 his particular mental qualities. It’s easy to get as 
 strong a man, but a mind like that is hard to find. I 
 doubt if there is another. He was priceless. Damn 
 him. He’s a superhuman monster. Why did I say 
 was before? He is. He is. That’s the worst of 
 it. I wish he . . . The government would give a 
 
 269 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 million pounds for that statement. Good Lordl I 
 never thought Gypo could turn informer. It must 
 have been a mistake. I couldn’t be wrong about 
 him. Some mistake. Sure. He isn’t the type. Sure. 
 I swear he isn’t. How could he be? He responds 
 to me like, like a needle to a magnet. Then how did 
 he inform? On his own pal too ! That’s the strange 
 thing about it. I’ve been studying him for eight 
 years and he never showed any signs of personal 
 initiative. Never once. I shouldn’t have dropped 
 him for six months. But of course I had to keep up 
 respect for the rules of the Organization. Good 
 Lord!” he cried pathetically, looking at the ceiling 
 and wringing his hands almost in despair, “I’m alone 
 with nobody to help me. Mary, there’s nobody to 
 give me advice. Why did nobody warn me against 
 expelling Gypo? What?” 
 
 He paused. She did not reply. She shuddered 
 and did not look. It was difficult to pray. She was 
 so tired. And it was terrifying not to pray. Then 
 she might have to listen to him. 
 
 Then suddenly she was startled into an upright 
 position, with her eyes staring and her mouth wide 
 open. Gallagher had uttered a strange sound. 
 Then he ran crouching to the form. He hurled him- 
 self upon it. He clutched at her knees. He was 
 looking with wild, strained eyes at a point on the 
 wall. He jabbered in a dry parched voice. 
 
 “There he is, Mary. I see him. I see him. I 
 270 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 see the sergeant writing it down. They are giving 
 him a drink. D’ye see him, Mary, with his little hat 
 perched at the back of his head, making the state- 
 ment? D’ye hear him say my name? D’ye hear 
 him?” 
 
 She drew his head towards her with both hands, 
 trying to make him look at her face, trying to get 
 his staring eyes away from the wall, but he struggled 
 against her. His eyes were fixed wildly on some 
 point in the wall. He writhed. 
 
 Then suddenly he sighed, turned towards her and 
 smiled. It was a natural, healthy smile. His eyes 
 danced humorously as he smiled. His terror had 
 passed away, giving place to a momentary joy. He 
 felt hilarious, like a woman drunk with wine. He 
 took Mary suddenly into his arms and kissed her. 
 He tickled her neck playfully with his fingers, laugh- 
 ing all the time. 
 
 But she struggled to free herself, panting. He 
 loosed her and stopped laughing, looking at her in 
 surprise. 
 
 “Did I frighten you, Mary?” he said casually. 
 “That’s all right. I often get a fit of the blues like 
 that. Don’t worry. Did you think I was mad?” 
 he added with a little laugh. 
 
 “Oh, you’re all right now, Dan, ha, ha.” 
 
 She was trying to laugh to cheer herself, but she 
 made a poor job of it. 
 
 “Sure I am, Mary. As right as rain. Every- 
 271 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 thing will be all right. Of course it will. Don’t 
 worry.” 
 
 There was a long silence. They sat close to- 
 gether, looking at the ground. 
 
 “Tell me, Dan,” whispered Mary awkwardly, 
 “did you see anything that time? When you were 
 looking at the wall? Did you see anything? Tell 
 me, quick. It’s such a queer place, this. I think 
 there are devils in it.” 
 
 “Damn it!” snapped Gallagher. “Why did you 
 bring the subject up again, when I want to forget it? 
 Devils! Huh! Devils!” 
 
 He jumped to his feet and took two paces forward, 
 stretching his hands out over his head with peculiar 
 intensity, like a man with a rheumatic twinge in his 
 shoulder blades. Then he shrugged himself and 
 rattled off with startling suddenness, in a quite calm 
 voice, cheerful and debonair. 
 
 “You are right,” he said, “after all, in asking the 
 question. I should have explained at the time,” he 
 yawned, “what I meant by seeing him. Of course I 
 was speaking figuratively. There are no such things 
 as devils, at least not supernatural creations, as the 
 current superstition understands them to be. The 
 only devils to be afraid of are human devils. I know 
 numbers of them. They are real enough. But they 
 wear sheep’s clothing. Respectable, law-abiding fel- 
 lows. I’ll see them again in a few hours, if Gypo 
 gets to the police station with his story. They’ll 
 
 272 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 drawl out slowly their sentence on me. Ha! 
 Pretty boys. And here I am doing nothing while 
 they are ...” 
 
 He moved rapidly up and down again, clutching 
 his hands behind his back, jerking his body about 
 and crunching his teeth. 
 
 “I am alone,” he continued. “Alone. I stand 
 alone. They can easily buy off the rest of the Ex- 
 ecutive Committee. They’ll be only too glad to get 
 away free, with their lives, at any cost, if it comes 
 To a fight. If evidence is found against me, suf- 
 ficient to prove certain things, they can strike at me 
 with impunity. My own rank and file would be the 
 first to stone me to death. Their damn supersti- 
 tions always stand in the way of revolutionary be- 
 liefs. They talk at International Head-quarters 
 about romanticism and leftism and all sorts of freak 
 notions. What do they know about the peculiar 
 type of hog mind that constitutes an Irish peasant?” 
 
 “How dare you?” cried Mary indignantly. 
 
 He looked at her. Her eyes were flashing. She 
 sat erect on the form. He had never seen a woman 
 wild and imperious like that. He smiled weakly. 
 
 “Sorry to hurt your feelings,” he said cynically. 
 “But I’m beyond that. Pish! I’ve got the whole 
 country in a fine net and I’m within the law until 
 they find something definite to go upon. I can snap 
 my fingers at the lot of you.” He grew fierce and 
 arrogant. “You and your patriotic ideas! I was 
 
 273 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 wrong about you. I don’t want you. I never 
 wanted you. Do you hear? I snap my fingers at 
 the whole world. That hulking swine can do his 
 best. I will drain his blood before dawn. Mark 
 my words. He’ll never reach the police station. 
 My destiny stands against him. And ” 
 
 Just then the sentry’s challenge rang out. Galla- 
 gher immediately stood stock still and listened. 
 Then he rushed into the passage, drawing his pistol 
 and muttering something. Two men were hurrying 
 down the stairs. The first of them came up smartly 
 to Gallagher and clicked his heels. 
 
 He was a small, slight man, with hawk’s eyes and 
 a long, pointed, curved nose. He wore a loose rain- 
 coat and a check cap. He was Billy Burton, an 
 Insurance Agent, a captain in the Revolutionary ' 
 Organization. Gallagher shook hands with him" 
 eagerly. 
 
 “Glad they fount! you in, Billy,” he said. 
 “You’re the very man I want.” 
 
 He led Burton into the guardroom and rapidly 
 explained the situation. Then he detailed a plan. 
 He detailed the plan coolly and minutely as if he had 
 spent weeks at it. 
 
 Burton listened, blinking his little eyes, sniffing, 
 biting his nails, fondling the butt of his automatic 
 pistol in his breast pocket. 
 
 Over on the form, Flynn was sitting, with his 
 broken jaw swathed in a red silk handkerchief. He 
 
 274 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 sat impassively, inscrutably communing with him- 
 self. He seemed to be unconscious of his surround- 
 ings, with his mind fixed immutably on some infinite 
 problem. 
 
 The only sounds in the room were the drip, drip 
 of the water from the many roofs and the patter of 
 Gallagher’s voice. 
 
 His voice was again cold, hard, dominating, vital. 
 
 275 
 
CHAPTER XVI 
 
 A t a quarter to four the drizzling rain 
 ceased. A sharp bustling wind arose. It 
 came screaming down from the mountains 
 upon Dublin. It was a hard, mountainous wind, a 
 lean, sulky, snowy wind, that rushed through the 
 sleeping city savagely, so that even the drops of rain 
 on the muddy sidewalks leaned over before it, with 
 frills on them. 
 
 The clouds arose, their hanging rumps cut away 
 by the newborn wind. They hung high up in the 
 heavens, gashed and torn, with a sour expression on 
 their grey, slattern bodies. Here and there a rent 
 came in the dishevelled panorama of cloud and the 
 sky appeared, blue and chaste and a long way off. 
 
 This change in the mood of nature occurred when 
 Gypo was bounding away from the Bogey Hole, 
 trembling shakily with excess of energy. He ran 
 through a short, narrow lane, so narrow that his 
 shoulders grazed either side as he dashed through. 
 He crossed a thoroughfare in four strides, casting a 
 look on either side as he leaped across. He saw a 
 sloppy roadway on one side, with a watchman’s glow- 
 ing brazier at the far end and on the other side a 
 
 276 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 hill. Tall tenement houses lined the thoroughfare, 
 their battered old walls rambling up towards the sky, 
 their squalor hidden by the majesty of the night. 
 
 He fled across the road and entered a dark arch- 
 way. Then he bumped suddenly against an old cart 
 and went head-over-heels with a smothered exclam- 
 ation. The concussion and weight of his body pro- 
 pelled the cart a distance of three yards on its crazy 
 wheels, with the shafts scraping along the ground. 
 He struggled to his feet and was about to rush away 
 again, when a human voice, coming from beneath 
 him, made him stand still. He looked down fiercely. 
 It was only some homeless derelict, who used the 
 archway and the cart as a house and a bed. 
 
 “The curse of — ” began a cracked, shivering 
 voice. 
 
 Gypo was gone, with a clatter of boots, over the 
 cobblestones of the archway. He debouched into a 
 wide street of new, red-brick houses. He gripped a 
 wall and peered around him, panting for breath, 
 wild with the excitement of his escape. 
 
 It was then that he noticed the wind, the lifting 
 clouds, and the far-away sky. He smelt the wind as 
 he breathed in great gasps through his nostrils, to 
 ease the pressure on his heart and lungs. Then sud- 
 denly, he longed for the mountains and the wide 
 undulating plains and the rocky passes and the swift- 
 flowing rivers, away to the south in his own country. 
 Freedom and solitude and quiet, with only the wind 
 
 277 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 coming through the bog heather! Hiding in some 
 rocky fastness of the mountains, listening to the 
 wind ! Away, away, where nobody could catch him! 
 To the mountains! To the mountains! Dark blue 
 mountains with bulging sides and little sheep roam- 
 ing over them, that he could catch and kill! 
 
 A wild ferocity of joy overcame him. He stared 
 with dilated nostrils ahead into the rim of the sky 
 above the houses, towards the south. He gazed, as 
 if he were measuring the distance between him and 
 the mountains, so as to take a giant leap, that would 
 carry him at once into the heart of their solitude. 
 
 Then he bent down, looking ahead intently. He 
 spat on his hands. He put his hand to his head to 
 settle his hat. But his hat was not there. His skull 
 was bare and damp. He felt all over it and found a 
 patch of clotted blood at the rear base, where it had 
 been kicked during the struggle in the inquiry room. 
 He took no notice of the blood, but kept feeling all 
 over the skull, with a dazed look in his eyes, mutter- 
 ing: 
 
 “What am I to do without a hat? I had it this 
 two years.” 
 
 In the same dazed way he felt all over his body. 
 He uttered a little shout. He had found it in his 
 trousers pocket, where he had stuffed it, during the 
 inquiry, when he heard that ominous ring in Gal- 
 lagher’s voice. He clapped it on to his skull, all 
 wrinkled and tattered and tiny. He beat it with his 
 
 278 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 palms, as if it were a mattress. Then, with a gentle 
 sigh, he darted away, headed due south for the 
 mountains. 
 
 He ran recklessly, without thinking of the way, or 
 taking any precautions. It was the slum district 
 which he knew so well, the district that enclosed Titt 
 Street, the brothels, the Bogey Hole, tenement 
 houses, churches, pawnshops, public-houses, ruins, 
 filth, crime, beautiful women, resplendent idealism 
 in damp cellars, saints starving in garrets, the most 
 lurid examples of debauchery and vice, all living 
 thigh to thigh, breast to breast, in that foetid morass 
 on the north bank of the Liffey. He ran through 
 narrow streets and great, wide, yawning streets, lanes 
 and archways, streets patched and buttressed, with 
 banks of earth from fallen houses almost damming 
 them in places, pavements strewn with offal, sod- 
 dened by the rain. 
 
 He never made a mistake. He was headed for the 
 mountains. The smell of the mountains was in his 
 nostrils, flooding his lungs, making his heart pant 
 with longing. 
 
 At last he entered Beresford Place and saw the 
 river. Instinctively he paused, leaning against a 
 wall, to examine the Bridge. He gasped and trem- 
 bled. 
 
 Two men were standing at the near side of the 
 Butt Bridge. They had already forestalled him. 
 He listened. He toyed with a last hope. He moved 
 
 279 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 cautiously across the open space, to reach the shelter 
 of the ruins of the Custom House. He reached it. 
 He peered closer at the men. They were still in- 
 distinct. After all, they might be robbers, workmen, 
 homeless fellows trying to pass the night, students 
 coming from the brothels and having a last drunken 
 argument on their way home. He crawled nearer. 
 Then his little eyes blinked and narrowed. 
 
 One of the men crouched against the biting wind. 
 Gypo recognized the crouching figure silhouetted 
 against the sky. It was Mulholland. And the 
 other man, standing stiff, with his hands in his pock- 
 ets, was Peter Hackett. 
 
 Gypo’s head became hot and stuffy. His eyes 
 closed, as a sudden pain struck him in the forehead. 
 He had an impulse to rush forward at the two men 
 and strangle them. But he did not move. He was 
 not afraid of the two of them, in spite of their being 
 armed. He did not fear their guns. But they were 
 part of the Organization. The Organization was at 
 the Bridge. It had got there before him. He could 
 not pass. Gallagher’s cold, glassy eyes were on the 
 Bridge. He could not pass. 
 
 The smell of the mountains left his lungs and his 
 nostrils. The wind still blew about his crouching 
 body. But it had lost its odour. Now it was only 
 sharp and biting, an enemy that drove him back- 
 wards, skulking and dumbfounded. Where was it 
 driving him? Where was it driving him? 
 
 280 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 He crouched away before it, without taking coun- 
 sel with himself, with his head hanging limply on his 
 breast. He crouched across the open space and 
 entered a roadway that led northwards. There was 
 nothing within him with which he could take counsel. 
 Within him he was blank and dark, like a bottomless 
 abyss filled with thick fog. His hulking figure was 
 driven by the wind to some boundless region where 
 there was no shelter. He was driven by the wind to 
 some boundless region where everything was col- 
 oured a dim grey, amorphous, terrible. 
 
 The vision of an abyss, grey, without shape, 
 swayed before his eyes as he strode northwards, 
 moving uncertainly, staggering slightly, without 
 guidance. His footsteps became slower. He came 
 to a halt and looked about him curiously. He was 
 under a railway bridge that crossed the street side- 
 ways over his head, encased in a black covering. A 
 little dark laneway opened to his right. He walked 
 three paces up the laneway and leaned his shoulder 
 against the damp wall. 
 
 There was shelter there. The wind did not come 
 in. Only an odd gust swivelled around the corner 
 and stirred the damp, musty air for a dying moment. 
 It was quiet and dark, like the interior of a cave. 
 He sighed. 
 
 Gradually he grew composed. He grew calm and 
 very weary. He wanted to lie down and go to sleep 
 for a long, long time. There was no use struggling 
 
 281 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 any farther. He was alone. The darkness of the 
 night enveloped him. 
 
 “There’s nobody here,” he murmured aloud. 
 
 The ground was a puddle. The walls were blank. 
 He felt with his feet, seeking a dry spot to lie down. 
 Everywhere his boot sank into a puddle. He cursed 
 and moved on a pace. He felt again with his feet. 
 Still more puddles. He moved along still farther 
 and tried again. No use. Then he began to walk 
 along mechanically, feeling the ground at intervals. 
 Then he kept walking slowly without feeling the 
 ground. He had forgotten about lying down. 
 
 He came to the end of the lane and saw a wide 
 street in front of him. He halted excitedly. 
 
 “Where am I going?” he cried aloud. 
 
 -He started at the sound of his voice and peered 
 suspiciously over his shoulder. Of course there was 
 nobody there. Then he steadied himself and tried 
 to think of where he was and what had happened. 
 It was a terrific struggle. 
 
 Slowly he began to remember recent events. Fact 
 after fact came prowling into his brain. Soon the 
 whole series of events stood piled there in a crazy 
 heap. Everything rushed towards that heap with in- 
 creasing rapidity, but nothing could be abstracted 
 from it. It was just as if the facts were sinking in a 
 puddle and disappearing. It was utterly impossible 
 for him to reason out a plan of action. 
 
 “I must make a plan,” he murmured aloud. 
 
 282 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 In answer to this exhortation came a vision of Gal- 
 lagher’s glittering eyes. They fascinated him. He 
 forgot about a plan. A horde of things crashed to- 
 gether in his brain making an infernal buzz. He lost 
 control of himself and ran about under the archway, 
 striking out with his hands and feet madly, trying to 
 fight the cargo of things that were jammed together 
 in his brain. It was that insensate rage that over- 
 comes strong men at times, when they have nothing 
 upon which to vent their fury, no physical opponent. 
 
 He worked madly at this curious exercise for fully 
 five minutes. Then he stopped, with perspiration 
 streaming from his forehead. He felt better. His 
 head was clear. He was again conscious of a grim 
 determination to escape, to outwit those fellows who 
 were on the Bridge. An idea that he thought amaz- 
 ingly cunning occurred to him, an idea to escape to- 
 wards the south, by making a wide detour towards 
 the north, up by the North Circular Road to Phoenix 
 Park, then westwards through the Park, then south- 
 wards again by Dolphin’s Barn. He was toying 
 with the route pleasantly when he was suddenly 
 interrupted by a sound of feet. 
 
 Trup, trap, trup, trap . . . came the sound of 
 heavy feet coming down the street in front of him. 
 Two policemen on their beat were coming along 
 slowly, rattling door chains as they came. Gypo’s 
 heart began to beat with terror. He thought they 
 were looking for him. In his bewilderment he could 
 
 283 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 not understand that he was now under police pro - 
 tection, an informer. He forgot that he had only to 
 rush up to them and say that the Revolutionary 
 Organization had condemned him to death and were 
 now tracking him, in order to be taken to a police 
 barracks, into safety. On the contrary, he still re- 
 garded them as his enemies. His mentality had not 
 yet accustomed itself to the change that his going 
 in the police-station that evening had wrought in his 
 condition. To his understanding he was still a 
 revolutionary. He was not at all conscious of being 
 an informer, or a friend of law and order, a protege 
 of the police. 
 
 He bolted headlong out of the laneway and clat- 
 tered away across the street. He wheeled to the 
 right, ran ten yards and then dived into another lane. 
 He continued his flight without stopping. He ran 
 without purpose, without guidance, driven north- 
 wards by panic and the impossibility of thought. 
 He ran headlong in all directions, into a street, down 
 its course, then to the left, back again in a parallel 
 line, down once more the street he had left, passing 
 several times the same corner in his mad flight. He 
 ran desperately, as if he were chasing some elusive 
 sprite that delighted in turning on its own tracks. 
 He floundered through pools. He struggled on his 
 hands and knees over waste plots. He crushed vio- 
 lently through holes in torn walls. He climbed over 
 piles of bricks, over walls, jumped into backyards 
 
 284 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 and then climbed back again into another street. He 
 was scratched, covered with mud, dripping wet. His 
 eyes were bloodshot. 
 
 Then suddenly a clock struck the half-hour close 
 by him. It was half-past four. He stopped dead, 
 attracted by the tolling of the clock. It was not the 
 sound but the remembrance it brought. He knew 
 that clock. It was near Katie Fox’s house where he 
 used to sleep. He stood in the middle of a narrow 
 lane, with his legs wide apart and his chest and 
 shoulders thrust forward listening to it. His lips 
 were opened wide. 
 
 He stood, like an uncouth, half-formed thing, 
 alone in the half-grey shadows of the night, wonder- 
 ing at strange things. 
 
 “It’s two turns from here,” he murmured, “first to 
 the left, then to the right. She should be in be now. 
 That must be three or four o’clock.” 
 
 Now he moved carefully, listening for sounds and 
 planting his feet lightly, close to the side of the lane. 
 He turned to the left, went down fifty yards and then 
 turned to the right. He entered a kind of circular 
 square, a crescent, with a church standing in the 
 middle. He moved around the crescent until he 
 reached the other side of the church. There, at the 
 corner of a little cul-de-sac, was the house in which 
 Katie Fox had a room, about fifteen yards away from 
 the church. 
 
 All the houses in the little square were tenement 
 285 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 houses, old, dusty and grey, tattered, sordid, with 
 broken panes in their windows. Nearly all the street 
 doors were ajar. There was nothing to steal within. 
 
 Gypo deferentially tipped his hat to the church as 
 he passed it. He entered the doorway of Katie Fox’s 
 house. The hallway was pitch black. He stood for 
 a few moments peering around in the darkness. 
 Then he saw a night-light on the first landing. He 
 recognized it as the light placed there every evening 
 by Mrs. Delaney, who had become a religious maniac 
 since her son was killed in the revolution of 1916. 
 He had been killed while he was running along the 
 streets, wounded, crying out for shelter. 
 
 “If he ever comes home at night,” whispered Mrs. 
 Delaney confidentially to everybody, “he’ll see the 
 light burnin’ an’ he’ll know I’m in. God is good to 
 His own people an’ He’ll look after me Johnny.” 
 
 Gypo felt comforted at seeing the night-light. He 
 moved noiselessly up the stairs until he reached it. 
 When he was passing it, rounding the angle of the 
 stairs, he paused, with his hand on the wooden banis- 
 ister and looked at it. For some reason or other he 
 tiptoed towards it, leaned out when he was within 
 two feet of it, and blew it out. Then he started and 
 looked about him wildly. It was pitch dark again. 
 
 “That’s better,” he said with a little sigh. 
 
 He mounted the stairs steadily. They remained 
 good until he reached the third floor. Then he had 
 to move up a narrow, rickety, broken stairs to the top 
 
 286 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 floor, where Katie Fox had a room. He made an 
 awful noise, but it disturbed nobody. He heard a 
 child crying when he got near the top of the stairs. 
 The child belonged to Tim Flanagan, an unemployed 
 man, who occupied the opposite room to Katie Fox 
 on the top landing. He lived there with his wife and 
 three children. The baby had the measles and the 
 other two children were awake. One child was 
 laughing. Gypo could distinguish Flanagan’s weak, 
 timorous voice, trying to soothe the children. 
 
 Gypo stood outside the door to the left, Katie 
 Fox’s door. He listened. A shaft of light streamed 
 through the keyhole and through a large, round hole 
 in the bottom of the door. A large piece of the door 
 had been gnawed away by a stray dog that Katie 
 Fox brought home one night. He bit his way out of 
 the room as soon as he got a meal. Gypo listened. 
 Katie Fox was talking within. Gypo knocked. 
 
 “Who’s that?” 
 
 “It’s only me, Katie. Open the door.” 
 
 “Mother o’ Mercy,” she screeched, “it’s his ghost. 
 It’s his ghost, Louisa. Louisa, will ye hide me some- 
 where, for God’s sake!” 
 
 “Ghost yer gran’mother,” came a cracked, old 
 voice. “Get up an’ open the door will ye, till we 
 see what he wants.” 
 
 “No, no — ” began Katie’s voice again. 
 
 Gypo put his shoulder to the door, burst the piece 
 of string that fastened it on the inside to a nail in 
 
 287 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 the wall, and flung the door open wide. He stalked 
 into the room. 
 
 At first the whole room appeared to be a blue bank 
 of fog. Then the blue mist dissipated gradually. 
 The room assumed proportions. Things swam out 
 of the mist towards him gracefully, in the order of 
 their importance. First came the lamp. It was 
 placed on the black, wooden mantelpiece over the 
 fireplace. It was an ordinary tin paraffin lamp, 
 painted red. The chimney was three-parts black. 
 Next came the fireplace. There was a huge, open 
 grate, with a turf fire burning in it. The fire was 
 more like the remains of a funeral pyre, because the 
 ashes had accumulated for weeks. The flaming peat 
 sods lay stretched like fallen logs on the top of the 
 great pile of yellow ashes. Next came the bed, with 
 Louisa Cummins lying in one corner of it. 
 
 The bed was so huge that it might be mistaken for 
 anything were it not supported by four thick 
 wooden posts and had a canopy over it, at the head, 
 after the fashion of those beds that are called in Irish 
 country places “Archbishops’ Beds.” The bed- 
 clothes were indescribable. Everything was pitched 
 on to the bed and everything stayed there. Louisa 
 Cummins lived in the bed most of the day. She had 
 done so for eight years, since she became “bedridden” 
 as the result of “injuries” received from the police, 
 one night she was arrested on a charge of trafficking 
 in immorality. She was quite strong and healthy. 
 
 288 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 She did all her work in bed. The blankets were 
 gathered about her bulky person in the far corner, 
 near the wall. In the other corner, Katie Fox’s 
 corner, there was a couple or so of tattered blankets. 
 The foot of the bed was heaped with junk of all sorts, 
 from a notched mug, out of which the old lady drank 
 her tea, to a statue of Saint Joseph that hung on 
 the bed-post, suspended from a thick nail by a rough, 
 knotted cord. The cord was around the statue’s 
 neck, in a noose. The statue was not suspended 
 there out of crude respect, as might be supposed. 
 It was hung there as a blasphemous protest against 
 the incompetence of the saint. Four years before 
 she had made a Novena to Saint Joseph, requesting a 
 cure for muscular rheumatism, and because her re- 
 quest was not granted she hung up the statue by 
 the neck. 
 
 When Gypo’s eyes found her through the fog, she 
 was hidden to the chin beneath a pile of blankets and 
 clothes of all sorts, up against the wall. She lay on 
 her side, with her white, shrivelled head ensconced 
 in a grey pillow, that had no case to cover it. The 
 feathers protruded from the pillow. The old wo- 
 man’s white hair was strewn about the pillow and the 
 bed-clothes, like strands of seaweed floating on the 
 surface of a shallow sea at low tide. Her mouth was 
 wide open, in an ogreish fashion, displaying red gums 
 and four yellow teeth, cropping up at unequal dis- 
 tances along her jaws; four, crooked, yellow fangs. 
 
 289 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 Her eyes alone showed life and intelligence. They 
 were small, fierce, blue eyes, blazing with cunning 
 and avarice. 
 
 Her body, hidden beneath the clothes, resembled a 
 mountain that had been reduced to a shapeless pulp 
 by concussion. 
 
 Gypo surveyed her without any emotion. Then he 
 looked around for Katie. He saw her standing in 
 the corner behind the door. She was still dressed 
 as he had met her in the public-house early in the 
 evening. But her dress had become dishevelled. 
 Her face had changed. It had changed in a strange 
 manner. It had lost the careworn, pinched expres- 
 sion. Her eyes were no longer tired. Her face was 
 flushed and full. The skin was loose. The mouth 
 was firm, with a voluptuous softness in the lips. 
 Her eyes flashed bright. They had the calm aggres- 
 siveness of healthy, energetic women, who are pass- 
 ing from one success to another, the calm, aggressive 
 flash of satisfied desire and of vaulting ambition. 
 While, in spite of all that, her hands, clutching her 
 throat, trembled in apparent terror, in contradiction 
 to the repose and vitality of her face. Her feet, 
 too, danced spasmodically. 
 
 “What’s the matter with ye, Katie?” said Gypo. 
 “What’s that ye were sayin’ about me ghost?” 
 
 He spoke in a hoarse, morose whisper. 
 
 “God!” exclaimed Katie. 
 
 290 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 She took her hands away from her throat and 
 clasped them behind her back, with the movement of 
 one offered an objectionable thing. Then she fled to 
 the fire at great speed. She leaned her back against 
 the wall to the right of the fireplace and gaped at 
 Gypo. She motioned to him with her head. 
 
 “Shut that door,” she said in a whisper. “Shut 
 the door and come in.” 
 
 Gypo turned to the door silently and began to tie 
 the two pieces of broken string to fasten it once 
 more. 
 
 “Where have ye ben?” she whispered. “O, Lord! 
 Ye put the heart crosswise in me.” 
 
 Gypo tied the door and stalked slowly and quietly 
 to the hearth. He stood still, glanced towards the 
 old woman and then looked with open lips at Katie. 
 
 “They’re after me, Katie,” he muttered with a 
 shudder. 
 
 There was a silence. Gypo shuddered again and 
 sat down in front of the fire. He sat on the floor, 
 with his elbows resting on his knees, stretching out 
 his hands to the blaze. 
 
 Katie looked at him with glittering eyes. She 
 stood against the wall, motionless. Her face had 
 very white beneath her crumpled red hat. Her eyes 
 glittered. Her upper lip was gathered together, 
 frilled. 
 
 The old woman in the bed glanced from Gypo to 
 291 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 Katie and from Katie to Gypo. Her eyes danced 
 with merriment. She kept cuddling herself, as if in 
 an ecstasy of enjoyment. 
 
 “What are ye talkin’ about?” said Katie at length. 
 
 “Th’ Organization is after me,” he muttered with- 
 out looking at her. “Commandant Gallagher is goin’ 
 to plug me. I escaped outa the cell in the Bogey 
 Hole.” 
 
 “What are they goin’ to plug ye for? In the name 
 o’ goodness, what are they goin’ to plug ye for?” 
 
 Katie Fox’s voice was cold and passionless, but 
 Gypo did not notice. She had a queer, thin smile on 
 her lips, but Gypo did not look at her face. She had 
 a flashing light in her eyes as she spoke, but Gypo 
 had not seen it. He was staring dreamily into the 
 fire. He was tired out and sleepy. There was no 
 use keeping watch any longer. He was tired, tired, 
 tired. Tired and sleepy. What was the use of keep- 
 ing watch any longer? Sleep, sleep, sleep. Then 
 he would go straight to the south. He would rush 
 to the south with the wind, through all obstacles. 
 Sleep, sleep, sleep. 
 
 “It doesn’t matter what they’re after me for,” he 
 muttered. 
 
 There was another silence. 
 
 Sleep, sleep, sleep. 
 
 “They want to get me outa their way,” he mum- 
 bled again. “But they’re not goin’ to get me. 
 Katie, I’m goin’ to flop here for the night. I’ll stay 
 
 292 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 till to-morrow night. Then I’m going south. Here’s 
 all the money I have.” 
 
 He rummaged in his trousers pocket and brought 
 out on his palm four shillings and sixpence. He 
 handed it to her. She approached and held out her 
 right hand for it, with a mincing movement. 
 
 “Gimme that money. Gimme that money,” 
 screamed the old woman from the bed. She strug- 
 gled to sit up. 
 
 “You shut up, Louisa,” growled Gypo, half turning 
 towards her across his shoulder. “Shut up or I’ll 
 flatten ye.” 
 
 The old woman collapsed, grinning. Then she 
 caught up a stick that lay beside her in the bed. She 
 shook the stick at Katie Fox. 
 
 “She robs me, she robs me,” she wailed, in a thin, 
 cracked voice. 
 
 “I’ll sleep here on the floor, Katie,” said Gypo. 
 “Hey, Katie. I’ll sleep here in front o’ the fire. 
 Katie, what’s the matter with ye? Why don’t ye 
 talk to me?” Katie burst into laughter. She had 
 sat down on a low stool to the left of the fire on re- 
 ceiving the money. Now she jumped to her feet and 
 laughed. It was a queer, dry laugh. There was a 
 dreamy look in her eyes. She looked at the floor, 
 wrapped in thought. 
 
 “Are ye drunk or what’s the matter with ye?” 
 grumbled Gypo. 
 
 “There’s nothin’ at all the matter with me,” mur- 
 293 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 mured Katie dreamily, still looking at the floor. 
 
 Then she drew in a deep breath and shrugged her- 
 self. She became alive and energetic again, wide 
 awake, with piercing eyes. She began to talk at an 
 amazing speed, with her arms crossed on her breasts. 
 
 “Sure, Gypo,” she said in a loud, hilarious voice, 
 “ye can sleep here till the crack o’ doom if ye like. 
 Sure enough, Connemara Maggie tole me about 
 Bartly Mulholland cornin’ lookin’ for ye. She came 
 into Biddy Burke’s as drunk as a lord, an’ she outs 
 with a yarn about Bartly puttin’ a gun to ye’ head an’ 
 drivin’ ye up the street in front o’ him.” 
 
 “Yer a liar, she didn’t,” growled Gypo, starting 
 slightly. 
 
 “Maybe she didn’t say that exactly,” continued 
 Katie, “but ” 
 
 “Did she give ye a quid I gave her to give ye?” 
 
 “A quid? Did ye give her a quid for me? Well, 
 of all the liars! Well, of all the robbers! Of all 
 the dirty sons of pock-faced tailors! She takes the 
 cooked biscuit. Troth then, she only gev me ten bob 
 an’ I had to fight her for that. O’ course I’m say in’ 
 nothin’ about things I might say a lot about, 
 but ” 
 
 “Oh! less o’ yer gab,” growled Gypo, feeling be- 
 hind him on the floor with his hand. “I’m not in 
 humour for yer gab, Katie.” 
 
 “Don’t lie on the floor,” she cried solicitously. 
 “Get into the bed. Lie in my corner. Don’t mind, 
 
 294 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 Louisa. The corner is mine. I can let who I like 
 int’ it. Louisa, if ye don’t lie still I’ll lave ye for 
 dead as sure as Our Lord was crucified. So I will. 
 Well what could ye expect? An’ I’m sayin’ nothin’ 
 now, Gypo, seein’ the position yer in, but it’s the 
 price o’ ye all the same. I hope ye don’t mind me 
 speakin’ me mind out. It’s the price o’ ye for lavin’ 
 them that were kind to ye, an’ throwin’ yer money 
 away on a strap like that. But sure me poor mother 
 used to say, Lord have mercy on her ” 
 
 “Get outa here, get outa here,” screamed the old 
 woman, waving her stick. 
 
 Gypo had thrown himself on the bed on his back. 
 The old lady began to beat him feebly about the 
 body with her stick. He took no notice of her. He 
 fumbled with the heap of tattered blankets, arrang- 
 ing them about his legs. 
 
 Katie Fox caught up the tongs and approached the 
 bed sideways, making furtive signs to the old woman, 
 urging her secretly to keep quiet. 
 
 The old woman subsided, muttering something. 
 Katie went back to the fire and put down the tongs. 
 She continued to talk. She was rapidly becoming 
 more excited. Her eyes had now a look of insan- 
 ity in them. Her lips were constantly becoming 
 wreathed with smiles, after the manner of a lunatic 
 who is thinking of some demoniac buffoonery in his 
 muddled brain. 
 
 “Though few people know it,” she cried arro- 
 295 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 gantly, looking at the door, while she put a cigarette 
 in her mouth, “me poor mother was a born lady. 
 Put that in yer pipe, Louisa Cummins, and try an’ 
 smoke it. Yev given me dog’s abuse since I came 
 into yer rotten pigsty of a room, but still an’ all ye 
 know yer not fit to wipe me shoes. So I don’t give 
 a damn.” 
 
 “Yerra, d’ye hear her, d’ye hear her?” croaked 
 Louisa Cummins. 
 
 She began to laugh, making a noise in her throat 
 like a hen, that quaint, cunning, querulous sound, 
 that a hen makes at night, when disturbed during 
 her roosting hours. 
 
 Gypo had arranged the clothes to his satisfaction. 
 The blankets covered his body up to his chest. His 
 eyes began to close. His little, round hat still re- 
 mained on his head, crushed down over his forehead. 
 There was a continual murmur in his brain. The 
 sounds, the talk, the smells about him no longer had 
 any meaning. 
 
 Sleep, sleep, sleep. 
 
 Danger, fear, everything was forgotten, but his 
 desire to sleep. 
 
 Sleep, sleep, sleep. 
 
 “Yerrah, is it an informer I’m lyin’ beside?” 
 screamed the old woman again, trying to rise with 
 fury. “Get out, get out. There’s blood on yer 
 hands. There’s ” 
 
 296 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 “Lie down or I’ll brain ye,” hissed Katie, rushing 
 once more to the bed. 
 
 With a weary sigh Gypo stretched out his left 
 hand and dropped it across the body of the old wo- 
 man. She subsided under the weight of the massive 
 hand. It lay across her, relaxed and tired. She 
 peered at it curiously, around the edge of her blan- 
 kets. Maybe she peered at it in terror. Who knows 
 what emotions were concealed behind that hideous 
 skull? 
 
 Gypo did not look at her. His eyes were almost 
 closed. His nostrils were expanding and contracting 
 noiselessly. 
 
 Sleep, sleep, sleep. 
 
 Then a mad rush to the mountains. 
 
 Sleep, sleep, sleep. 
 
 “Blast it for a story,” cried Katie Fox, stamping 
 on the floor. 
 
 She walked to the middle of the floor. Then she 
 folded her arms and stood with her legs wide apart 
 and her chest thrown out, gazing at the dim wall 
 with glittering eyes. She threw back her head and 
 laughed. 
 
 “Amn’t I the fool?” she cried. “Oh! amn’t I the 
 fool? Me that could walk with the finest men in the 
 land! Do ye know that me gran’father was the 
 Duke o’ Clonliffey? Do ye know that? An’ me 
 mother was related to royalty on her father’s side. 
 
 297 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 Not to the King of England either, but to me bould 
 King o’ Spain, where they grow oranges an’ ye can 
 drink wine out of a well like water from the Shannon. 
 Sure it’s there where I was born an’ reared, in a 
 palace as big as the County Waterford, with arch- 
 bishops waitin’ at table on me, with red napkins on 
 their arms, an’ a rale lady ” 
 
 “Yerrah, will ye hould yer whist,” piped the old 
 woman. 
 
 She tried to brandish her stick and to disengage 
 herself , from the hand that lay on top of her. But 
 the hand stiffened for a moment. She was pressed 
 down beneath it. Then the hand relaxed again. 
 
 Sleep, sleep, sleep. 
 
 Gypo’s eyes opened wide for a moment. Then he 
 closed them. Everything in his mind became a blur. 
 Nightmares stood massed in his brain ready to rush 
 in on the platform of his sleeping mind and carry on 
 their mad acting, as soon as his being soared off, 
 bound in sleep. He had already surrendered to 
 these nightmares. 
 
 Sleep, sleep, sleep. 
 
 Katie Fox looked at him cunningly for a moment. 
 Her face hardened and her eyes narrowed to points. 
 Then she glanced away again, towards the wall. Her 
 lower lip dropped. Her eyes distended. She puffed 
 twice at her cigarette. She began to talk again. 
 
 “I could tell ye stories about them all, Gypo,” she 
 cried, waving her arm wildly in Gypo’s direction. 
 
 298 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 “I could tell ye, so I could, but what’s the use of 
 tellin’? Wha’? What’s the use of anythin’? An’ 
 Fr. Conroy refused to give me absolution. Well, he 
 can go to hell. I can get along without his absolu- 
 tion. I’m not afraid o’ hell. Oh, Mother o’ 
 Mercy!” she cried, suddenly crossing herself; “what 
 
 have I said? What ” 
 
 “Ha! Cross yersel’, cross yersel’,” croaked 
 Louisa Cummins. “But it’s no good to ye. Down 
 ye’ll go. Down ye’ll go. Ha, ha, ha!” 
 
 “There’s a curse on me family, Louisa, since me 
 second cousin the Duchess of ... of ... of .. . 
 where is that place she was Duchess of? . . .1 for- 
 get it, although I was there often with me mother. 
 It’s somewhere out be Killiney. Well, she put a 
 curse on me family anyway. She used to have thir- 
 teen monkeys sittin’ at the breakfast table with her.” 
 
 “Yer a liar, yer a liar,” cried the old woman in a 
 sudden fury. “She couldn’t have thirteen monkeys. 
 She couldn’t have thirteen. It’s them drugs yer 
 takin’ that’s gone to yer head. Thirteen! Foo!” 
 
 Gypo mumbled something in a tremendous whis- 
 per. Both women looked at him. His lips were 
 moving, but the words were unintelligible. His 
 massive chest heaved up to an enormous extent and 
 collapsed again slowly, with a great outrush of 
 breath from the nostrils. His tawny face stood out 
 impassively in the glimmer of the firelight. It 
 looked sorrowful and oppressed. 
 
 299 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 Sleep, sleep, sleep. 
 
 He was wafted away by heavy gusts of sleep, to the 
 thunderous music of fantastic nightmares. Primeval 
 memories assumed form in the clouds of sleep that 
 pressed down about him. They assumed form and 
 shape, the shape of the beings that pursued him. 
 
 Sleep, sleep, sleep. 
 
 His strength was becoming unbound, dissolved in 
 sleep, loosened out and swaying limply on vapours 
 of sleep. 
 
 Sleep, sleep, sleep. 
 
 “D’ye know what I’m goin’ to tell ye, Louisa?” 
 continued Katie in a low, hushed voice. “When I’m 
 dead they’re goin’ to canonize me. Then I’ll have a 
 holy well out on the Malahide Road, an’ I’ll put a 
 spell on everybody I don’t like, an’ make them get 
 up in the middle o’ the night, an’ walk out barefoot 
 to the well, to drink three cupfuls o’ the holy water. 
 An’ never knowin’ that I’ll have it poisoned. This 
 is a queer world, Louisa, an’ ye’ll soon be out of it, 
 ’cos yer ” 
 
 “Sorra a fear o’ me,” croaked the old woman. 
 “I’ll dance on yer grave. Ye little rip o’ divilment. 
 Yer not the first nor the fifth that has come into me 
 house this ten years an’ gone the same road. No yer 
 not. An’ ye won’t be the last. Oho! Ye all got 
 pretty faces. Ye all get the fine strong men to kiss 
 ye. But old, dirty-faced Louisa Cummins ’ll dance 
 on yer graves. She dances on yer graves. So she 
 
 300 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 does. Now what are ye doin’ with him? Are ye 
 puttin’ yer evil spell on him? Informer an’ all that 
 he is, I’ll not let ye put yer evil spell on him. I’ll not 
 let ye do that. Go away from the bed.” 
 
 Katie had come to the bed and had bent down with 
 her left ear to Gypo’s face, listening to his breathing. 
 She raised her face to look at the old woman. 
 
 “He’s dead asleep,” she whispered with a smile. 
 
 “Well? Is that queer?” 
 
 “Don’t wake him while I’m gone, Louisa.” 
 
 “Where are ye goin’?” 
 
 “Mind yer own business, Louisa. I’m givin’ ye 
 warnin’.” 
 
 “Is it to the polis yer goin’?” 
 
 “Don’t talk so loud. It’s not to the polis I’m 
 goin’. I’m just goin’ out.” 
 
 “Ha! Yer goin’ to inform on him ye rip o’ divil- 
 ment. Yer goin’ to inform on him.” 
 
 “It’s nothin’ o’ the kind. Isn’t he an informer? 
 Don’t make a noise. Don’t waken him or they’ll fill 
 ye full o’ lead when they come. I’m givin’ ye this 
 warnin’. Shut up.” 
 
 She moved backwards to the door, with her hand 
 held out threateningly towards the old woman. The 
 old woman looked after her. Her mouth was wide 
 open. Her eyes roamed about. Then Katie dis- 
 appeared out the door. Her shoes went tapping 
 down the stairs. The banisters creaked. The room 
 was still, except for Gypo’s heavy breathing. 
 
 301 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 The old woman remained motionless for several 
 seconds, looking towards the door. Then she groped 
 for her stick and tried to rouse Gypo with it. But 
 Gypo’s arm still lay across her body holding it down. 
 In his sleep it stiffened and held her down. She 
 peered at it and frowned. She dropped the stick and 
 smiled. 
 
 “Ha!” she gurgled, “she’s gone to inform on ye, 
 me fine boyo. They’ll soon be here after ye. Trust 
 a woman, trust a devil. She’ll be the ruin o’ ye, me 
 bould warrior. An’ many’s the fine strappin’ woman 
 from yer own country would give her two eyes for a 
 night with ye. An’ here ye lie, asleep an’ weak, with 
 the weariness o’ death on ye. Ha! The divil mend 
 the lot o’ ye. Ha! There ye are now. Ha! 
 There ye are now an’ be damned to ye. Ha! Ha!” 
 
 Sleep, sleep, sleep. 
 
 Sleep and strange dreams. 
 
 302 
 
CHAPTER XVII 
 
 A t sixteen minutes to six, Mulholland 
 rushed down the stairs into the Bogey Hole, 
 shouting in a hushed whisper all the way: 
 “Commandant, Commandant, we have him, we 
 have him!” 
 
 Gallagher rushed to the stairway. He found Mul- 
 holland grasping the wall with one hand, with his 
 cap in the other hand, panting, with perspiration 
 rolling down his cheeks in drops. 
 
 “It was Katie Fox,” he gasped. “She came run- 
 nin’ down Mount William Road: Charlie Carrol 
 headed her off. She tole him Gypo was up in her 
 room, in bed. No. 61 Mount William Crescent. 
 Captain Burton has got the house surrounded. He 
 sent me up for orders.” 
 
 “Katie Fox?” said Gallagher. “I thought she 
 was ” 
 
 “She’s mad with dope.” 
 
 “I see. Double back and tell Burton I’ll be down 
 immediately. Don’t move till I arrive.” 
 
 “All right, Commandant.” 
 
 Mulholland raced up the stairs again. Gallagher 
 303 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 rushed back to the witnesses’ room. Mary Mc- 
 Phillip had fallen into a doze. He roused her. 
 
 “Come on, Mary,” he whispered. “We are going 
 now. We found him.” 
 
 “Who? What? Jesus, Mary and Joseph! Who 
 did you find?” 
 
 “The informer. Gypo Nolan. We found him at 
 61 Mount William Crescent. I am going there now. 
 Come along. Then I’ll leave you home.” 
 
 She was waking up gradually, frightened and 
 rubbing her eyes. Gallagher fidgeted excitedly, try- 
 ing to get her to her feet. 
 
 “What time is it?” she asked. 
 
 “A quarter to six.” 
 
 “Heavens above! Mother will be gone to Mass 
 before I get home.” 
 
 “What does it matter?” 
 
 “Of course it matters. I was to have gone with her 
 this morning. For Frankie.” 
 
 “Where does she go to Mass?” 
 
 “Mount William Crescent.” 
 
 “Well, we’re going there, too. You can go into the 
 chapel and meet her there.” 
 
 “Why? What’s at Mount William Crescent?” 
 
 She was fully awake now and had got to her feet, 
 wild eyed. 
 
 Gallagher got angry and swore. He stamped his 
 feet. 
 
 “Come on quickly. I have no time. I tell you 
 304 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 the informer has been found. He is at Mount 
 William Crescent. I’m going down there. Come 
 along.” 
 
 “You’re going to murder him,” she gasped, with 
 her bosom heaving. 
 
 “Murder be damned!” cried Gallagher. “We’re 
 going to wipe him out.” 
 
 “You’re a beast. You’re not going to murder him, 
 not while I can prevent it.” 
 
 She rushed from the room. With a fierce oath he 
 rushed after her. He caught her at the foot of the 
 stairs. The sentries rushed up. She kept screaming 
 and striking out with her clawing hands. 
 
 “Keep her here,” he hissed. “Don’t let her out on 
 any account for an hour. Then let her off and get 
 home. Good-bye.” He looked fiercely into Mary’s 
 eyes. His face was ashen with rage. “We spare 
 neither man nor woman. Remember that.” 
 
 Then he rushed up the stairs. 
 
 “Murderer, murderer,” she cried after him, until 
 they stuffed her mouth. 
 
 30S 
 
CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 S hapeless figures dancing on tremendous 
 stilts, on the brink of an abyss, to the sound of 
 rocks being tumbled about below, in the dark- 
 ness, everything immense and dark and resounding, 
 everything without shape or meaning, gloom and 
 preponderance, yawning, yawning abysses full of 
 frozen fog, cliffs gliding away when touched, leaving 
 no foundation, an endless wandering through space, 
 through screeching winds and . . . crash. 
 
 Gypo awoke with a snort, perspiring with his 
 nightmare, terrified. 
 
 The old woman had at last awakened him by 
 squeezing his nostrils between her fingers. He sat 
 up, looked about him and saw her. He saw her 
 weird and pale, with her white hair streaming. He 
 was going to strike her in terror, thinking her an 
 ogre from his dreams, when she spoke. 
 
 “They’re after ye,” she hissed. “They’re after ye. 
 They’re on the stairs.” 
 
 He listened. There was nothing. Not a sound. 
 What? Just a whistle of the wind on the roof. Ha! 
 Something creaked. Was it the bed? No. Trup, 
 trip, r-r-rip. Somebody had slipped on the roof. 
 
 306 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 Gypo bounded from the bed to the floor in one 
 leap. He stood motionless, crouching forward, pant- 
 ing, with dilated nostrils. A sound came on the 
 stairs outside the door. Somebody on the stairs said : 
 “Hist!” Then utter silence. Gypo stood trans- 
 fixed, still wet with the perspiration of his nightmare. 
 
 Then he moved noiselessly to the fireplace and 
 picked up the tongs. It slipped from his fingers as 
 he rose and rattled to the stone hearth. He whirled 
 about to the door with an oath. Simultaneously the 
 door was flung wide with a bang. Three flashes of 
 light came before his eyes from the doorway. As he 
 rushed headlong towards them there was a deafening 
 roar. Three men had fired together at him. Then 
 there was chaos. 
 
 As he dashed across the floor to the landing, he felt 
 a sting like frost-bite in his thigh. Then he saw 
 their terror-stricken, mad faces. He recognized two 
 of them, Mulholland and Hackett. The third man 
 was Curley. When he closed with them and felt his 
 giant hands on the soft warm flesh of their bodies he 
 breathed a sigh of satisfaction. 
 
 Somebody fired again, unintentionally, in the 
 struggling mass on the landing. It must have been 
 Curley. For his thin voice screamed querulously 
 after the explosion, “God have mercy on my soul!” 
 Gypo smelt burning under his armpit as his head 
 was bent down to mobilize his spine strength. 
 
 Then the banister gave way with a crash of break- 
 307 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 ing wood. The four men went down, without a cry. 
 Their fists thudded with dull sounds as they struck 
 blindly at one another in the dark. 
 
 They fell on the next landing. Gypo and Mul- 
 holland were on top. Mulholland had his right knee 
 on Curley’s back. He was cool with the mania of 
 death-terror. He bared his teeth and raised his 
 pistol to fire into Gypo’s open mouth. But Gypo 
 rammed him with his monstrous head. 
 
 Mulholland was hurled backwards like a gymnast, 
 head over heels, heels over head. He brought up on 
 a black sheepskin carpet outside a tenement door in 
 the far corner. He lay with his knees to his chin, 
 perfectly quiet. The pistol shot splashed through 
 the whitewashed woodwork of the ceiling. The 
 pistol jingled to the floor. 
 
 Gypo scraped around on his hands and knees in 
 the darkness. He groped for the two men who lay 
 beneath him. He felt their rumps, their backs, their 
 thighs, in a wide sweep of his hands. Their bodies 
 were lax and soft, like the carcasses of dead things. 
 One of them sighed and turned over. Gypo rose to 
 his feet. Without looking anywhere he rushed for 
 the stairs and leaped down. 
 
 Half-way down the last flight he paused and tried 
 to think. But he drew his hand over his eyes and 
 shook his head. 
 
 “It’s no use. It’s no use,” he said aloud. 
 
 308 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 There was a great din of disturbed people in the 
 house above him. 
 
 He reached the hallway. Through the open door 
 he could see the street outside. The dawn had come. 
 The air was grey, cold, empty and silent. He 
 marched steadily to the door. His body was very 
 cold. And his mind was dead. Cold and dead. 
 Dead and cold. 
 
 A stream of red blood trickled down over his right 
 boot from the wound in his thigh. Another stream 
 trickled along his right ribs. He did not know. He 
 was cold and dead. Dead and very cold. 
 
 He stopped in the doorway. His eyes expanded. 
 A last passion made his body rigid. He roared. He 
 had seen Gallagher standing against the church rail- 
 ings across the road, with his hands in his raincoat 
 pockets, smiling insolently. 
 
 Gypo descended the five steps to the street at one 
 bound. Then as his right foot landed on the pave- 
 ment there was a rapid succession of shots. They 
 came from all sides. Three of them entered his 
 body. Without bringing his left foot to the pave- 
 ment he jumped again into the air, with his two hands 
 reaching out and his face turned upwards, in the 
 earnest attitude of a symbolic dancer. 
 
 He hurtled out into the street, hopping on stagger- 
 ing feet, writhing and contorting. Then he fell to 
 his knees. He groaned and fell prone. 
 
 309 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 He struggled up again, looking wildly around him, 
 holding his bowels with his hands. Gallagher was 
 there in front of him, smiling dreamily now, with 
 distant, melancholy eyes. 
 
 Gallagher shrugged himself and turned away 
 sharply to the right. 
 
 Gypo wanted to go after him. But he no longer 
 knew why he wanted to go after him. His eyes were 
 getting dim. His body was cold. Cold and dead. 
 
 Grinding his teeth he got to his feet. He threw 
 out his chest, shrugged his shoulders and walked 
 ahead like a drunken man. He walked slowly 
 straight ahead, straight, stiff, swinging his limp hands 
 slowly. 
 
 He walked through the iron gateway of the church, 
 along the concrete path to the door. He had to 
 crawl up the steps on his knees. Blood was coming 
 up his throat. 
 
 Reverently he dipped his hand into the holy -water 
 font. He wet his hand to the wrist. He tried to 
 take off his hat in order to cross himself. His hand 
 pawed about his skull, but his fingers were already 
 dead. They could not grip the tattered hat. He 
 tried to cross himself. Impossible. His hand could 
 not reach his forehead. It went up half-way and 
 then fell lifelessly. It was a ton weight. He strode 
 to the left. He staggered through a narrow Roman 
 door. He was in the church. 
 
 It was a great high room, curtained with silence. 
 
 310 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 At the altar, away in the lamp-lit dimness of the 
 dawn, a priest was saying Mass. The droning sound 
 of the words came down the silent church, peaceful, 
 laden with the quaint odour of mystery, the mysteri- 
 ous calm of souls groping after infinite things. All 
 round the church the people knelt with bent heads 
 and faces wrapt in prayer for infinite things. Sad, 
 haggard, hungry faces wrapt in the contemplation of 
 infinity, wafted out of the sordidness of their lives 
 by the contemplation of infinite things. 
 
 Peace and silence and the quaint odour of mystery 
 and of infinite things. 
 
 Deep, long, soft words murmured endlessly in a 
 silent place. Mystery and the phantoms of death 
 breathing faint breaths. 
 
 Mercy and pity. Pity and peace. Pity and 
 mercy and peace, three eternal gems in the tabernacle 
 of life, burnished ceaselessly with human dust. 
 
 From dust to dust. 
 
 Gypo’s eyes roamed around the church. His eyes 
 were very dim. There was a blur before them. He 
 thought he saw somebody whom he knew. He was 
 not sure. Yes. They were looking at him. There, 
 on the left, on the other side of the aisle. It was a 
 long way off. What? Frankie McPhillip’s mother! 
 
 He set out, with a great sigh, towards her. He fell 
 in a heap in front of her seat. He raised his head to 
 her face. He saw her face, a great, white, sad face, 
 with tears running down the fat cheeks. He strug- 
 
 311 
 
THE INFORMER 
 
 gled to his knees in the aisle before her. People 
 were rushing to him talking. He waved his hands 
 to keep them away. It was very dark. He swal- 
 lowed the blood in his mouth and he cried out in a 
 thick whisper: 
 
 “Mrs. McPhillip, ’twas I informed on yer son 
 Frankie. Forgive me. I’m dyin’.” 
 
 “I forgive ye,” she sighed in a sad, soft whisper. 
 “Ye didn’t know what ye were doin’.” 
 
 He shivered from head to foot and bowed his head. 
 
 He felt a great mad rush of blood to his head. A 
 great joy filled him. He became conscious of in- 
 finite things. 
 
 Pity and mercy and peace and the phantoms of 
 death breathing faint breaths. Mercy and pity and 
 peace. 
 
 “Lemme go!” he cried, struggling to his feet. 
 
 He stood up straight, in all the majesty of his 
 giant stature, towering over all, erect and majestic, 
 with his limbs like pillars, looking towards the altar. 
 
 He cried out in a loud voice: 
 
 “Frankie, yer mother has forgiven me.” 
 
 Then with a gurgling sound he fell forward on his 
 face. His hat rolled off. Blood gushed from his 
 mouth. He stretched out his limbs in the shape of 
 a cross. He shivered and lay still. 
 
 312 
 
A NOTE ON THE TYPE IN 
 WHICH THIS BOOK IS SET 
 
 The type in which this book has been set {on the Lino- 
 type) is Old Style No. 7. This face is largely based 
 on a series originally cut by the Bruce Foundry in the 
 early seventies which in its turn appears to have fol- 
 lowed, in all essentials, the details of a face designed and 
 cut, some years before, by the celebrated Edinburgh type 
 founders, Miller and Richard. It has always been a 
 popular and satisfactory face for book work because 
 while it is compactly designed, so that a large number 
 of words appear on a page, its compactness is not ac- 
 companied by any loss in legibility. A page set in Old 
 Style No. 7, has a subdued color and even texture which 
 makes it easy and comfortable to read. 
 
 SET UP, ELECTROTYPED AND PRINTED 
 BY THE VAIL-BALLOU PRESS, INC., 
 BINGHAMTON, N. Y. • ESPARTO 
 PAPER MANUFACTURED IN SCOT- 
 LAND AND FURNISHED BY W. 
 
 F. ETHERINGTON & CO., 
 
 NEW YORK • BOUND BY H. 
 WOLFF ESTATE, NEW 
 YORK. 
 


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