It was dark when the news came to Cluhir, six o'clock of a wet night.
The counting of the votes had taken place elsewhere, and the word was
to come by wire. Barty and Larry, with others of the rival
"Commy-tees," had hung about between the post-office, and their
respective offices, and houses of call, all day. Many drinks had been
drunk, many bets been laid; before the news came through, Larry's
proclaimed indifference as to the result had worn so thin as to be
imperceptible. It seemed to him, during the tedious hours of that dark
and wet afternoon, that success in this enterprise was the only thing
left in life worth having. To triumph, secretly, over that secret
clerical opposition, to snap his fingers, openly, at Georgy
Talbot-Lowry's impudence and all that it implied of hostility and
contempt. These were the great objects of life, the things that
justified all the double dealing, and the lies, and the humbug of the
past weeks. There was no such thing as patriotism, and ideals were
rot. He had claimed last night to be a single-minded patriot, but
to-day he knew better; he had become a man, and had put ideals away,
with love, and other childish things. The main thing was to have your
desire of your enemy.
He was standing in the heavy downpour on the outskirts of the group
that waited outside the post-office; he was sick with suspense and
fatigue, and hardly troubled to move as a motor came slowly nosing its
way through the crowd.
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