Strumpet City

CHAPTER THREE

Aloysius Hennessy, replete after a breakfast of fried bread and tea, counted the stairs as he descended lightheartedly from his room to the hallway and emerged from its darkness into warmth and sunlight. The bells of Sunday were sounding over the street, the time was wearing up to midday. At a distance ahead of him a figure hobbled in the same direction. The gait was unmistakable. Hennessy quickened his pace and caught up without difficulty.

‘Going to mass?’ he asked.

‘I am,’ Rashers said, ‘and damn nearly late, at that.’

‘Whereabouts?’ Hennessy asked.

‘The Pro-Cathedral, along with the Quality.’

‘So am I,’ Hennessy said, ‘I’ll walk along with you.’

‘After the week’s carry-on you’ll hardly want to take a tram, anyway,’ Rashers said. ‘How’s tricks?’

‘Things is looking up. I have a few weeks work with Cramptons above in the Park. Pushing an oul barrow here and there for them.’

‘That’s good,’ Rashers said. ‘I’m glad for the children’s sake. Are they well?’

‘All on the baker’s list,’ Hennessy said.

‘And yourself?’

‘Gameball,’ Hennessy said.

There was no enquiry about Mrs. Hennessy. Rashers had asked deliberately after them all in order to leave her out.

‘Have a cigarette,’ Hennessy offered, to show that they were still the best of friends.

They stopped to light up. The air was sultry, the sound of bells and mass-going traffic intermingled.

‘I like Sunday,’ Hennessy said, leaning on the railings to inhale his cigarette, ‘A man can take his legitimate rest.’

‘Come on,’ Rashers urged.

‘What’s your hurry?’

‘I’m bad enough without the addition of a mortal sin. We’ll be late for mass.’

They resumed, Hennessy, suiting his pace to Rashers, noticed how painfully slow it had become. He had money in his pocket and that made him want to step it out. The bowler on his head, though a bit too big, was a source of pride. He began to whistle.

Rashers, irritated, said:

‘Tie a bit of string around it—will you. You’re like a bloody canary this morning.’

‘It’s the bit of work,’ Hennessy apologised.

‘If you want to keep it, I advise you to give over the whistling. It’s unlucky in the morning. Whistle before your breakfast and you’ll cry before your supper.’

‘I had my breakfast,’ Hennessy said.

‘That’s more than I had,’ Rashers said.

Hennessy felt abashed. He was full himself and had not thought that Rashers might be hungry. He searched in his pockets and found a shilling.

‘Take that,’ he said.

Rashers stopped to examine the coin.

‘You’re a decent skin,’ he said, putting it in his pocket. ‘I’ll pay it back to you when the ship comes home.’

Hennessy waved this aside.

‘Time enough,’ he said.

But Rashers was moody. Ill fortune had been dogging him.

‘I always made plenty during Horse Show week,’ he explained, ‘but this time the tram strike ruined me. The gentry was too busy ducking bricks and jamjars to have ears for a bit of music.’

‘The commotion was terrible,’ Hennessy agreed.

‘It killed the trade,’ Rashers said.

They turned into D’Olier Street and met the first section of police.

‘The Larkin Reception Committee,’ Rashers said.

‘Do you think he’ll turn up?’

As Hennessy asked, the vista of the street opened to them. Rashers stood still. Sections of police were placed at intervals up its entire length, from the bridge to beyond Nelson’s Pillar. They had never seen so many policemen before.

‘If he comes down in a balloon,’ Rashers decided.

They made their way cautiously up the street. Others, on their way to twelve mass too, walked in front and behind them. There were the usual Sunday strollers, young men in their Sunday best, girls in their finery. The police were keeping them on the move, but otherwise there was no interference.

‘I’ll tell you this, though,’ Rashers added, when they had seen the full strength of the preparations. ‘If he does turn up there’ll be Holy Slaughter.’

As they joined the people who were thronging into mass, Hennessy fumbled and produced two pennies. He slipped one to Rashers.

‘You’ll want that for the collection plate,’ he whispered.

‘Thanks,’ Rashers said.

Hennessy removed his bowler, wiped it carefully with his sleeve and dropped his own penny on the plate. He entered ahead of Rashers, the bowler clasped piously against his chest. Rashers passed by the collection plate with an air of abstracted fervour and put the penny beside the shilling in his pocket.

After mass Hennessy wanted him to walk through Sackville Street again.

‘Not for a knighthood from the King himself,’ Rashers said.

‘I’d like to see if Larkin turns up,’ Hennessy said.

‘You’ve the full use of both your limbs. But poor oul Rashers would be a sitting target for any murderous bowsie of a Peeler.’

‘Ah—come on,’ Hennessy urged.

‘Go by yourself, with my blessing and full consent,’ Rashers said, ‘but Rashers is home by the back lanes.’

They parted. Hennessy adjusted the bowler and made his way back to Sackville Street. Others came with him. The crowd in the street was enlarged by the after-mass strollers. A cab driver who knew Hennessy reined in for some moments to pass the time of day.

‘You’re looking very spruce,’ he said.

‘I can return the compliment.’

‘Are you taking your constitutional?’

‘A bit of a ramble after mass to work up an appetite for the plate of pigs’ feet and cabbage.’

‘I’d ramble somewhere else,’ the cabman said, leaning down from his seat. ‘Do you see them stalwarts beyond?’

He meant the body of the Dublin Metropolitan Police drawn up in ranks outside the Metropole.

‘I’d want to be blind to miss them,’ Hennessy said, marvelling at their numbers.

‘Half of them bowsies is drunk,’ the cabman said. ‘I’ve passed six platoons of them already and the waft of bad whiskey from each made the oul nag stagger between the shafts. Do you know what some of them is up to?’

He leaned down even further and beckoned Hennessy nearer so that he could whisper in his ear.

‘Smoking,’ he said, ‘smoking on jooty. There’s a quare one.’

‘That’s shocking,’ Hennessy said.

‘Half of them hasn’t been in bed for three days and nights because of the riots. They’ve been bombarded from the windows with everything from flower boxes to chamber pots—full ones. The result is their nairves is gone. Every one of them is itching to get a belt back at someone—anyone. So I’d advise you to get out.’

One of the policemen had crossed over as they spoke. He rested his hand on the driver’s rail.

‘Are you going to anchor there for the day?’

‘A few words on a matter of business with my friend here,’ the cabman explained.

‘Take him with you or break it up,’ the policeman said, ‘you’re causing an obstruction.’

‘I’ve said what I want to say,’ the cabman answered, giving a jerk on the reins. As the cab moved away he turned and shouted back at Hennessy.

‘Have regard to what I was talking about,’ he advised.

Hennessy waved and moved on. The crowd had increased during their conversation. There was a small Larkinite element near the G.P.O. wearing the Red Hand union badge in their coats. Young couples promenaded as they always did on Sundays, looking in the shops and pausing to greet their friends. There were men swinging light canes and wearing buttonholes, the more respectable classes. Hennessy mingled with them. Near the Imperial Hotel a stranger said to him:

‘I don’t think he’ll turn up. Do you?’

‘I don’t see how he can,’ Hennessy agreed.

‘Even the Quality follow him around now,’ the stranger said. ‘There’s plenty of them about this morning.’ They surveyed the street together, noting the number of well-dressed citizens in the crowd. Cars and carriages passed up and down. Despite the efforts of the police, groups were gathering and swelling at various points in the street. There was an air of holiday.

‘What time is it?’ Hennessy enquired. The man produced his watch.

‘Wearing up to half past one.’

‘Time for a bit to eat,’ Hennessy said.

‘Have a look at his jills,’ the man said.

Hennessy looked. A stooped, frock-coated old man with a beard and a tall silk hat was being helped from a cab by the coachman and a young lady. He leaned on her arm and paused to look about the street.

‘Wouldn’t you think he’d have a bit of sense,’ the man remarked, ‘at his age.’

They watched as the old man, still leaning heavily on the arm of the girl, was led into the hotel.

‘The niece . . . would you say?’ Hennessy speculated.

‘I would. With an eye on the money, waiting for God to see fit to call the poor oul fella.’

‘He looks the sort that would have plenty of it.’

‘That’s what keeps them alive. No worries and plenty of money. Ah well.’

‘The good God made a queer division,’ Hennessy said. As they moved away people detached themselves from the crowd on the far side of the street and began to move towards them. Others joined in, until the whole street seemed on the move. Hennessy looked behind him. The figure of the frock-coated old man stood on the balcony above the street. Hennessy saw him straighten up and pull the beard aside. He flung out his arms in a gesture that by now was unmistakable.

‘It’s Larkin,’ the man beside Hennessy shouted. The crowd roared its recognition and surged forward. Larkin on the balcony shouted in triumph.

‘I promised you I’d speak to you in this street today. I’ve kept that promise. I’ll leave here only when they arrest me.’

Hennessy gazed upwards, thunderstruck, but in a moment the police had reached the balcony and Larkin was seized. He saw him being led out of the hotel and marched towards College Street Station. At the window of the cab in which Larkin had arrived, a woman screamed: ‘Three cheers for Jim Larkin.’

‘It’s the Countess Markiewicz,’ the man with Hennessy said. Police surrounded the carriage, ordering it to turn about. They began to manhandle the driver. The countess was forced back into her seat and the crowd surrounding the cab began to heckle.

‘Trouble,’ the man with Hennessy said, ‘let’s get out.’

But the pressure of the crowd tightened suddenly and lifted Hennessy off his feet. Over their heads he saw the first wave of police, their batons drawn, coming at the double towards the crowd. His heart jumped with horror. He thought of his bowler. A belt of a baton would ruin it for ever. He tried to raise his hands to take it off his head but they were pinioned to his sides. His ribs were caving in, every breath became an agonising struggle. He was almost unconscious when the impact of the baton charge turned the crowd and it began to break up. Hennessy dropped to the ground. He lay there for some moments, gasping, until the thought of his hat galvanised him once more. He felt his head. The bowler was gone. He searched about frantically on his hands and knees and found it again. Then, clasping it tightly to his chest, he stood up. He began to move down the street. There was no escape that way. Furious battles were being fought around O’Connell’s monument and across the length of the bridge. The victims of the first charge lay everywhere about him. He moved up the street cautiously, but only for a few yards. There was another charge in progress and hundreds of people, trying to escape, were running in his direction. As he set off diagonally towards Princes Street those in front of the fleeing crowd were already about him. He made Princes Street and slowed down, gasping for breath. For a moment the street seemed deserted and he thought he had found an escape route. He put the bowler back on his head, spat to clear the heavy phlegm from his gasping lungs, then suddenly snatched the bowler off again. Another section of police had appeared at the head of Princes Street and were preparing to charge. With police in the narrow street in front and police behind, there was now no escape. Police began to beat their way through from both ends. Hennessy dodged several blows before he was hit. He backed away from one policeman only to bump into another. The second struck him a blow on the shoulder which paralysed the right side of his body. The first raised his baton and, as Hennessy was falling, brought it down hard on the side of his head. Hennessy, the bowler still clutched firmly against his chest, went down like a log and lay still.

The ambulance men brought him round. They lifted him up and found the bowler under him. It was dusty, but intact.

‘Is this his?’ one of them asked.

‘Shove it in along with him,’ the other said. When Hennessy could speak he claimed the hat and thanked them from his heart.

‘It would have been better on your head,’ one of them said, examining the jagged wound.

Hennessy tried to smile. It wouldn’t. The head would mend, with the help of God. The man attending to him touched the right shoulder and Hennessy gave a gasp of pain.

‘Better bring him in,’ he advised.

The news was bad that night. Two workers had been killed, hundreds were hurt. The hospitals were thronged all day. At night the gas-lamps were extinguished and the side streets were loud with pitched battles. In one place the West Kent Regiment was called out to help to restore order. Hennessy was able to limp his way home around five in the evening. His shoulder was dislocated but the bowler still fitted. He was able to raise it with his left hand, exposing the bloodstained bandage, to salute Father O’Connor when they met near the corner of Chandlers Court. Father O’Connor raised his hat automatically in return.

The sight of a similar bandage on the priest’s head transfixed Hennessy.

Father O’Connor, flushing slightly, passed on. Hennessy remained rooted to the ground.

‘Holy God!’ he exclaimed. The world had turned upside down.

Yearling, making his way across town to a meeting of the Board, was held up by a procession. It was the funeral of a dead striker. It passed him slowly, with bands and torches and stewards with crêpe-covered staves who marshalled the thousands that followed into uneven ranks. At the front marched members of the British Trade Union Congress, including Keir Hardie, whom he recognised immediately. He would make the oration, Yearling surmised, in place of Larkin, who was now in gaol. At the very back a force of mounted police kept a watchful eye on the mourners. The music affected Yearling, as music always did, and the dense rabble marching in time to it looked to him like figures from the French Revolution. Most of them were ragged and many had bandaged heads and limbs. They were out in force once more, drawn from their lanes and warrens by a now uncontrollable discontent. He stayed to watch, even when the way was clear for him to continue with his journey. The thought that they were so many appalled him. He had a drink and read with particular care the newspaper reports of the disturbances. When he reached the foundry of Morgan & Co. the meeting was over. His brother-in-law invited him into his office.

‘I’m sorry you missed it,’ he said.

‘I was held up by a trade union demonstration,’ Yearling said.

‘More rioting?’

‘No. A funeral of one of the strikers. I’m sure it was the largest since Parnell.’

‘We’ve decided to move,’ Bullman said.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘We’re going to put a stop to all this immediately,’ Bullman explained. ‘No more Larkinism and no more broken contracts. I’ve reported to the Board on the meeting of the Employers’ Federation. They’ve agreed to a man to support the proposal.’

‘What proposal?’

‘The proposal of the Federation to outlaw Larkinism. We are issuing this tomorrow. Four hundred other employers are pledged to take the same action.’ He took the top copy of a form from a bundle on his desk and handed it to Yearling.

‘All employees must sign it—whether they belong to Larkin’s union or not.’

Yearling took the form and read it. It ran:

‘I Hereby Undertake to carry out all instructions given to me by or on behalf of my employers, and, further, I agree to immediately resign my membership of the Irish Transport and General Workers’ Union (if a member); and I further undertake that I will not join or in any way support this Union.

Signed . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Address . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Witness . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Date . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

He handed it back and said:

‘Who drafted this?’

‘Our chairman—William Martin Murphy.’

The undubbed knight was moving openly at last.

‘Suppose they refuse to sign?’ Yearling suggested.

‘That’s what we hope they’ll do,’ Bullman said ‘When the Larkinites refuse we’ll get rid of them.’

‘But you’re giving this to both Larkinites and non-Larkinites,’ Yearling said. ‘Suppose the non-Larkinites refuse to sign also?’

‘That’s unlikely,’ Bullman said. ‘Why should they fight Larkin’s battles for him?’

‘Why do they take sympathetic action and why do they refuse to handle goods they regard as tainted?’ Yearling pointed out.

‘Are you against the proposal?’

‘Isn’t it indiscriminate?’

‘Why didn’t you attend the meeting?’ Bullman asked irritably.

‘Fate,’ Yearling said. ‘I seem to miss the few important occasions.’

‘You’d have been in a minority of one,’ Bullman assured him.

‘Possibly. But I would have frightened them.’

‘I doubt it.’

Yearling recovered his hat from his brother-in-law’s desk.

‘You yourself would have been the hardest nut to crack,’ he said, ‘and you are frightened already.’

Rashers lit the candle and lay down between the rags he had accumulated during his long occupation of the basement of Chandlers Court. The dog stretched itself at his feet, the candle cast familiar shadows, all was as usual in his cellar below the city. In the street above him the day was still waning, although the hour was almost eleven. The weather of August was being kind that year, the light reluctant to quit the sky. But the cardboard in the window kept out what was left of it, making the candle a necessary expense.

Rashers drank water from a jamjar and chewed some dry bread from the rusted biscuit tin at his bedside. He was tired from tramping the streets and he was afraid of what might happen. The police were carrying out raids on the tenements, smashing furniture, breaking delph, beating up the inhabitants. They were wreaking a savage revenge on those who had ambushed them continuously from the windows of dark streets. Every tenement was an enemy now, a fortress furnished with bricks and bolts and chamber pots. It was unlikely they would visit a basement, but the stories he had heard were not reassuring. The police were angry. They were determined to spread terror wherever they could.

‘A gang of bowsies,’ Rashers said to the dog.

At the sound of his voice it stood up. It watched him as he ate, its eyes begging for its share. If they came Rusty would protect him. If he heard their feet coming down the stairs he would whisper, ‘Get them, Rusty.’ The barking was a protection in itself. But if they were too incensed or too drunk to be put off by that, then let them break in the door and face the music. Rusty would take them all on. Without hesitating to make a count of the helmets.

He called the dog to him and said: ‘Here, Rusty,’ and shared his bread with his bodyguard. The dog gulped it down and then licked his hand.

‘No more, Rusty,’ he said sadly. The biscuit tin was empty.

The poorer streets were keeping a wary eye on the possibility of disturbances. In the more respectable areas his rags marked him out as a representative of the hooligan element. People closed their doors on him or turned aside from him. He had thought of writing a ballad about the arrest of Larkin, but the words refused to come. The pockets he’d compose for were now likely to be as empty as his own.

‘What’ll you and me do if it becomes a general thing, Rusty?’ he asked.

If job after job is closed, and beggar after beggar invaded the streets, until the city became a vast hunting ground of unemployed?

‘So far as you and me is concerned,’ he said to the dog, ‘God never shut one door but He closed another.’

He lay back and tried to be calm about the threat of the dark hours and the uncertainty of the days that were coming.

‘Go to bed, Rusty,’ he ordered.

Once again the dog stretched himself at his feet. Rashers blew out the candle.

The bundle of forms was taken from Mr. Bullman’s desk for distribution. On the appointed day he waited, with anxiety, for their return. None came. He addressed enquiries of a discreet nature through the hierarchy of control. The answer was that his workers, Larkinites and non-Larkinites alike, were refusing to sign. He held council again with his Board. They decided to be resolute. The next day instructions were given to reduce the furnaces gradually and to set up slow fires. The men refused the instruction. Bullman, knowing that his supervisory staff could do this much for him, took the necessary steps.

In the morning Fitz entered as usual through the office and signed his name in the book left there for foremen. When he reached No. 1 furnace house the night shift was leaving. No one came to replace them. After half an hour or so he left and went across the works yard. He found the main gates closed. He heard the voices of men outside and let himself out through the gateman’s hut. A large poster on the gate declared a lock-out. Work would be available only for those who reported first to the office to sign the Federation form. No one went to the office. They stood about for a while or slipped in by the side gate to collect some personal belongings from the company’s lockers. They returned after a brief interval carrying teapots or cracked cups or overalls and working shirts bundled all together. Then they drifted away. Fitz, returning to No. 1 House to check if anything remained to be seen to, found Carrington waiting for him.

‘Do you think they’ll change their minds?’ Carrington asked.

‘Hardly,’ Fitz said.

He surveyed the empty house. The line of furnaces, charged by the night workers before they left, glowed dimly down its length. The silence was oppressive.

‘We’ve to bank down all the fires,’ Carrington said. ‘You’ll know what’s to be done. Take the heats down slowly. We’ll have to do that over two or three days or the brickwork may crack. The office staff will be down in an hour or two to give a hand.’

‘You’ll need more than the office staff.’

‘Some of the workers will come back to sign,’ Carrington said. ‘We’ll put them at it. Then we’ll recruit casual labour.’

‘If you do that,’ Fitz said, ‘there’ll be serious trouble.’

‘The police will give protection. We can’t let the bloody plant get damaged. That wouldn’t be in anyone’s interest. Your job will be to direct operations in here. You’ll have a crowd of clerks working under you and they won’t know what they’re supposed to be about. You’ll have to keep a sharp eye on them.’

‘What time will the office staff report at?’

‘In about an hour—or even less. They’re being rounded up at the moment.’

‘I’ll be here for them,’ Fitz said.

‘We’ll boil up a can of tea while we’re waiting,’ Carrington suggested. ‘Have a fag.’

‘No,’ Fitz said. ‘I’m going up aloft to look after the reserve water supply. It may be needed and I’ve found nobody else has ever been able to put it in working order.’

He climbed laboriously up steel ladders and felt his way by handrails that were covered with a thick coating of dust. Below him the light from the untended furnaces threw tiny pools of red along the empty floor. He felt his way along the galleries, the handrails guiding him where the gloom was thick, an occasional rooflight easing the strain with a dusty shaft of sunlight. He trod gingerly through the remote and intricate web of steel until he found the water reserve which was located above No. 4 House. He remembered testing it many times before, when the coal-stack went on fire and Mulhall was one of the carters called in to help. He went through the same drill with it now, until the pipes began their agitated dance and the gallery trembled with the sudden outburst of noise. Satisfied that the reserve would work if called on, he followed the catwalk until it led him through a doorway and on to the roof.

He looked about him, grateful for the fresh air. Below him the works yard was empty. There were no carters leading their horses, no labourers piling coal. The telpher, its arcing rail empty, no longer sent blue sparks flying from its trolley. The new loading machine, to which Mulhall had sacrificed his legs and his manhood, was abandoned and untended and bathed in lonely sunlight. Beyond the yard, at a distance of a few intervening streets, was the river. Here and there smoke curled from the funnels of ships. None of the cranes was working. Either it was the hour between tides, or the lock-out had spread to the riverside. He delayed for some time, looking at the empty yard and considered his own position. He had not been issued with a form. Probably they assumed that he had left the union when they made him a foreman. Carrington then, had been decent enough to keep his mouth shut.

When he got back the office staff were assembled already in No. 1 House.

‘You organise this lot,’ Carrington said. ‘I’ll look after No. 2 House. There’s a cup of tea ready for you when you get them working.’

‘Right,’ Fitz said.

He divided them, putting some on the skips and giving shovels to others. Then he explained what was to be done, and at what times. He appointed a senior clerk to direct the rest. He watched them charging the furnaces and showed them how to dress the fires lightly. The heat was to be brought down, he told them, a little at a time and with care. They understood what was at stake and grasped the system quickly. When the initial confusion and awkwardness had been overcome, he left them at it and went to find Carrington.

Carrington’s gang had not yet arrived. He poured tea from a billycan for Fitz and asked:

‘How’s it going?’

‘Smoothly enough,’ Fitz said. ‘They’ll get the heats down without damage.’

‘Fine,’ Carrington said.

Fitz took the tea. It was thick and brown. Carrington made tea in the way of the workers: tea leaves and sugar all in together, with a lacing of condensed milk. It had the taste of the job off it, of coal fumes, of sweat, of furnace-house gossip. Carrington said:

‘You’ll have to keep an eye on them, just the same.’

Fitz drank his tea, thinking his way ahead.

‘They’ll fold up after a while, of course,’ Carrington pursued. ‘Enthusiasm is no substitute for experience.’

He took his tea.

‘Muscles too soft,’ he explained.

‘They’ll manage,’ Fitz said.

‘With a bit of guidance,’ Carrington said, indulgently.

‘Well,’ he added, when Fitz did not seem disposed to talk, ‘better get back on the job I suppose.’

Fitz examined his cup. There was a residue of liquid in it, enough to wash the tea leaves from the sides as he tilted it about and about. He considered carefully and said:

‘I won’t be going back to the job.’ He had the feeling of pushing a bolt on a door firmly home, or making a will. Carrington said nothing for some time. He, too, was feeling his way.

‘You realise what you’re doing?’ he said at last.

‘Perfectly,’ Fitz said.

‘There’s a chance, sooner or later, they’ll show a little mercy to the others. But they’ll never forgive a foreman. If you quit now you’ll walk through that gate for the last time. You’ll never get back.’

‘I know that,’ Fitz said.

‘Then why do you have to be such a fool?’

Why? Personal pride, or the hope that at the end of so much travail, somewhere in the unseeable future, there would be a change in the world. He had seen a man suffer and afterwards he had picked up two dismembered feet and wrapped them in a sack.

‘I couldn’t leave the union now,’ he said. ‘People who were never in it and never intended to be in it are locked out because they won’t sign a bit of paper promising never to join it.’

‘They’ve the prospect of getting back,’ Carrington said. ‘You’ve none.’

‘We’ll cross that bridge when we meet it,’ Fitz said. He pushed the cup away from him and stood up.

‘See you sometime,’ he said.

Carrington offered his hand. Fitz shook it.

‘Thanks,’ he said.

He left the house, crossed the empty yard and went through the gateman’s hut into the street. The notice of the lock-out was still posted on the main gates, which were closed.

By the end of the week Bullman had assembled the facts for his Board. The four hundred firms in membership of the Employers’ Federation had stood firm, thirty-two trade unions had joined with the Larkinites in refusing to sign the form. The lock-out was general throughout the city. They must act from now on in consort with the rest of the employers. They would have financial support from employers in England. Gates closed, machinery came to a standstill. The city of Dublin was practically paralysed. It was reckoned that about twenty-four thousand men were involved. In a matter of days the streets filled with the hungry hordes Rashers had feared.