e clock ticks on, the boy reads, but with little
attention. At the corridor door there is a knocking. Christy Clarke
turns slightly. The door opens, and a tall man in the ugly dress of
a pauper is seen. The man is Felix Tournour. He carries in a bucket
of coal. He performs this action like one who has acquired the habit
of work under an overseer. He is an ugly figure in his pauper dress.
His scanty beard is coal black. He has a wide mouth and discoloured
teeth. His forehead is narrow and bony. He is about forty-five._

TOURNOUR
_(in a harsh voice, after looking around)_ Is he not back
yet?

CHRISTY
_(without stirring)_ Is who not back yet?

TOURNOUR
The master I'm talking about. I don't know where he does be
going those evenings.

_He shovels coal into the stove_.

CHRISTY
And what is it to you where he does be going?

TOURNOUR
Don't talk to me like that, young fellow. You're poorhouse
rearing, even though you are a pet. Will he be sitting up here
to-night, do you know?

CHRISTY
What's that to you whether he will or not?

TOURNOUR
If he's sitting up late he'll want more coal to his fire.

CHRISTY
Well, the abstracts will have to be finished to-night.

TOURNOUR
Then he will be staying up. He goes out for a walk in the
evenings now, and I don't know where he does be going.

CHRISTY
He goes out for a walk in the country. _(Tournour makes a
leer of contempt)_ Do you never go for a walk in the country, Felix
Tournour?

TOURNOUR
They used to take me out for walks when I was a little
fellow, but they never got me out into the country since.

CHRISTY
I suppose, now that you're in the porter's lodge, you watch
every one that goes up and down the road?

TOURNOUR
It gratifies me to do so--would you believe that now?

CHRISTY
You know a lot, Felix Tournour.

TOURNOUR
We're told to advance in knowledge, young fellow. How long
is Tom Muskerry the Master of Garrisowen Workhouse?

CHRISTY
Thirty years this spring.

TOURNOUR
Twenty-nine years.

CHRISTY
He's here thirty years according to the books.

TOURNOUR
Twenty-nine years.

CHRISTY
Thirty years.

TOURNOUR
Twenty-nine years. I was born in the workhouse, and I mind
when the Master came in to it. Whist now, here he is, and time for
him.

_He falls into an officious manner. He closes up the stove and puts
bucket away. Then he goes over to desk, and, with his foot on the
rung of the office stool, he turns the