Дублінці
Grace
Hewashelpedtohisfeet.Themanagersaidsomethingaboutahospitalandsomeofthebystandersgaveadvice.Thebatteredsilkhatwasplacedontheman’shead.Theconstableasked:
“Wheredoyoulive?”
Theman,withoutanswering,begantotwirltheendsofhismoustache.Hemadelightofhisaccident.Itwasnothing,hesaid:onlyalittleaccident.Hespokeverythickly.
“Wheredoyoulive”repeatedtheconstable.
Themansaidtheyweretogetacabforhim.Whilethepointwasbeingdebatedatallagilegentlemanoffaircomplexion,wearingalongyellowulster,camefromthefarendofthebar.Seeingthespectacle,hecalledout:
“Hallo,Tom,oldman!What’sthetrouble?”
“Sha,‘snothing,”saidtheman.
Thenew-comersurveyedthedeplorablefigurebeforehimandthenturnedtotheconstable,saying:
“It’sallright,constable.I’llseehimhome.”
Theconstabletouchedhishelmetandanswered:
“Allright,Mr.Power!”
“Comenow,Tom,”saidMr.Power,takinghisfriendbythearm.“Nobonesbroken.What?Canyouwalk?”
Theyoungmaninthecycling-suittookthemanbytheotherarmandthecrowddivided.
“Howdidyougetyourselfintothismess?”askedMr.Power.
“Thegentlemanfelldownthestairs,”saidtheyoungman.
