EVENING PIECE

By L. A. G. STRONG

" 000-EE-EEE." With a queer little whining noise, the old man straightened his back. He leaned on the handle of his three-pronged fork, peered into the can, and decided he had enough lug-worms for the next day. His dog, Mick, who had been watching him with a resigned boredom, sprang to his feet, wagged his tail, and let a bark. - " Hold your noise, now," the old man admonished him, and went stiffly to the dry rock where he had left his belongings. The tide had turned, and a chill evening breeze was coming in with it from the bay. The old man shivered, and swore to himself : but he did not let the breeze hurry his ritual.

First, he cleaned the fork on the loose tresses of seaweed hanging from the rock. Then he washed his hands in a pool, and dried them on an old rag, before putting on his coat. Lastly, he picked up his false teeth, which lay grinning on a pinnacle of the rock. A new set, they did not fit too well, and, when he stooped to dig, they were apt to fall out. He washed them carefully in a second pool, put them in his mouth, and chumbled with satisfaction at the harsh, clean taste of the salt water. Then he picked up fork and can, and shuffled up to the Sea Wall, where he had left his bicycle. With another short, single bark, Mick ran ahead.

When he reached the Wall, the old man realised that it was later than he had supposed. Darkness was coming up fast. The lights along the pier were winking, and the spires of Dun Laoghaire were vanishing into a murk of cloud. The old man strapped the fork to the bar of his bicycle, prongs foremost, hung his bait-can over the handle- bars, and slowly, with a series of stiff hops, mounted from the step behind. The bicycle was low-geared, and his legs pedalled surprisingly fast, with a wide, capering motion, for the sedate pace at which he progressed. He was making his way along, keeping close to the kerb, his mind pleasantly concerned with thoughts of supper, when a deep voice broke in upon him, nearly making him fall off with surprise.

" Stn p! "

The old man pulled up, to see a large form looming up out of the dusk, holding up a white gloved hand.

" Stop, you. Where's your lamp? "

The old man stared at his handlebars in feigned astonish- ment.

" Well—I declare to me God! Sergeant—would ye believe it? If that isn't the second time in a fortnit either I lost the lamp or it's been stolen on me. Isn't that the divil? I swear it was lighting just now, and I down at the Pier looking at them German sailors. Did you see them, Sergeant? A fine body o' men. Oh, bcdad they are. A fine body o' men."

The Sergeant looked at the fork and the can of bait, his big chin deep on his chest.

" Tell me," he said at last, " and what age might you be?"

" Well, Sergeant. I'm nearer eighty than you are."

" Be God, then, you're a fine man. But, for your age, you're a foolish man. All velocipedes must have a lamp, and a lighting lamp. Don't ye know that? "

" Sure I know it well, Sergeant ; and I observe it too.

I'm the carefullest man in Ireland on a bike. Sure I wouldn't cycle five paces without a lamp."

" Where do ye live? " asked the Sergeant.

" Above in Delgany Villas. Number seventy-one."

" Number s-tventy-one, is it? Isn't that a queer thing?

That's my own number. Seventy-one B."

The Sergeant showed the metal figures on his uniform. " So it is, Sergeant. So it is. Well now. Isn't that a conin-ci-dence."

" Aye. Seventy-one B. I suppose there wouldn't be a B in yours too? "

" No, Sergeant. Only the plain seventy-one. There's one house, further down the street, a largeish size of a house, has an A in it. Nineteen, I think it is. Nineteen, and nineteen A. But I never heard there to be one with a B. And mine isn't either A or B ; only the plain seventy-one."

All the time he was speaking, the old man's eyes kept glancing nervously towards the dog. Mick knew he was in a jam, and was only waiting for the shred of an excuse, a note in the voice, the flicker of his master's eyelid even, to be at the Sergeant and bury his teeth in him. He kept circling round the big blue-clad legs, his back straight, his whole body non-committal and cleared for action.

Even as his master finished speaking, Mick sensed fear, and edged in closer. The old man's blood chilled in him. He had had no licence for a dog this twenty years. His mind leaped ahead in anguish and saw disaster. No lamp —no licence—keeping a ferocious dog—constable's right thumb bitten off—faith, the best he could hope for was eleven years' hard.

As if reading his thoughts, the Sergeant glanced down- ways. " Ay," said he, in an altered tone, " will ye call this animal off, away from me legs."

" Come here, Mick, come here this minyit. Have ye no sense? "

The old man's voice rose fiercely to a squeak. Hesi- tating for a second, the dog came reluctantly to the back wheel of the bicycle. From that distance he growled softly.

" Faith," said the Sergeant, looking at him with dis- favour, " that's a queer cull-de-sack of an animal. What do ye call him? "

" Mick, Sergeant."

" No, ye gomm. What breed is he? "

" Well, bedad, ye puzzle me there, Sergeant. I don't rightly know his pedigree."

" I believe ye," said the Sergeant, still looking at Mick. " Well—tell me—where are ye proceedin' to now? "

" I'm goin' home to me supper, Sergeant." The old man's face creased artfully, ingratiatingly. " I'm that careful about bicycles—indeed I am, Sergeant. I do be constantly preaching to them at home about the lamps on bicycles. It's funny I should be the first one to fall meself this way, but, as you know, Sergeant— " The Sergeant interrupted him. " Listen here to me, me sound man," he said, with feigned ferocity. " Will ye for Jasus' sake trundle that velocipede through the town and take yourself and that animal to hell out o' this? And go home by the back road there. Be the holies, I'm surprised at ye, a man of your age. It's in your bed ye ought to be."

" Indeed, you're right, Sergeant. You're right. Ah, isn't old age a caution. I dread it comin' on me."

" Well. Be off with ye now."

" I will, Sergeant, I will. Thank you kindly. You'll not be troubled again."

" Ay," the SerFant called after him. " Get a chain, and chain the lamp on your velocipede. And chain that dog o' yours to it, too."

" I will, Sergeant. I will."

The old man pushed his bike along till he reached the back road. Then, with a look up and down, he mounted it again, hop-hop-hop, and, after a preliminary wobble or two, went off at his queer high stepping amble into the darkness.