It was
some time before he came to a final decision, and we walked
backwards and forwards from the village with heavy clouds flying
overhead and the wind howling in the walls. At last he telegraphed
to Galway to know if he was wanted the next day, and we went into a
public-house to wait for the reply.
The kitchen was filled with men sitting closely on long forms ranged
in lines at each side of the fire. A wild-looking but beautiful girl
was kneeling on the hearth talking loudly to the men, and a few
natives of Inishmaan were hanging about the door, miserably drunk.
At the end of the kitchen the bar was arranged, with a sort of
alcove beside it, where some older men were playing cards. Overhead
there were the open rafters, filled with turf and tobacco smoke.
This is the haunt so much dreaded by the women of the other islands,
where the men linger with their money till they go out at last with
reeling steps and are lost in the sound. Without this background of
empty curaghs, and bodies floating naked with the tide, there would
be something almost absurd about the dissipation of this simple
place where men sit, evening after evening, drinking bad whisky and
porter, and talking with endless repetition of fishing, and kelp,
and of the sorrows of purgatory.
When we had finished our whiskey word came that the boat might
remain.
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