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"
God
forbid
,
"
said
Mr.
Cunningham
.
"
It
does
n't
pain
you
now
?
"
asked
Mr.
M'Coy
.
Mr.
M'Coy
had
been
at
one
time
a
tenor
of
some
reputation
.
His
wife
,
who
had
been
a
soprano
,
still
taught
young
children
to
play
the
piano
at
low
terms
.
His
line
of
life
had
not
been
the
shortest
distance
between
two
points
and
for
short
periods
he
had
been
driven
to
live
by
his
wits
.
He
had
been
a
clerk
in
the
Midland
Railway
,
a
canvasser
for
advertisements
for
The
Irish
Times
and
for
The
Freeman
's
Journal
,
a
town
traveller
for
a
coal
firm
on
commission
,
a
private
inquiry
agent
,
a
clerk
in
the
office
of
the
Sub-Sheriff
,
and
he
had
recently
become
secretary
to
the
City
Coroner
.
His
new
office
made
him
professionally
interested
in
Mr.
Kernan
's
case
.
"
Pain
?
Not
much
,
"
answered
Mr.
Kernan
.
"
But
it
's
so
sickening
.
I
feel
as
if
I
wanted
to
retch
off
.
"
"
That
's
the
boose
,
"
said
Mr.
Cunningham
firmly
.
"
No
,
"
said
Mr.
Kernan
.
"
I
think
I
caught
cold
on
the
car
.
There
's
something
keeps
coming
into
my
throat
,
phlegm
or
--
--
"
"
Mucus
.
"
said
Mr.
M'Coy
.
"
It
keeps
coming
like
from
down
in
my
throat
;
sickening
.
"
"
Yes
,
yes
,
"
said
Mr.
M'Coy
,
"
that
's
the
thorax
.
"
