‘Persian Prince’s your man,’ Haverty said. He drew a hand across his face, wiping away froth left behind by his stout. ‘John Joe Shevlin up. Unbeatable.’

‘No better man,’ Mr Coyne contributed.

‘He has England defeated.’

‘I would agree with that.’

But Mr O’Hagan gloomily shook his head. If Butt Nolan advised Persian Prince he wouldn’t touch the animal with a pole, John Joe Shevlin notwithstanding. ‘Another two bob gone west on The Gullet. Does Nolan think they grow in the woods?’

No reply was offered. If there was a young fellow that ever sat on a horse with the skill of John Joe, Haverty continued, he had yet to be shown him. All animals acquired quality under John Joe.

‘I would agree with that,’ said Mr Coyne.

Other horses were mentioned, Happy Honeymoon and Fancy Cottage, and other jockeys. Haverty ceased to wipe the froth from around his mouth. Mr Coyne whistled for a moment beneath his breath. ‘All I’m saying,’ said Mr O’Hagan, ‘is Butt Nolan’s a chancer. I’ve nothing against young Shevlin.’

In his mouth the lemonade turned the biscuits into a sweet mush which Tom held there for as long as he could. It surprised him that the men remained where they were instead of going to see the knife-throwing. You could hear the music from it on the quays and in South Main Street, much louder than it had been on the island. The ferryman said the entire town was going to it.

I’m not saying for a moment,’ Mr O’Hagan lugubriously persisted, ‘that Persian Prince isn’t a well-bred animal. I’m not saying that at all.’

‘Wasn’t he bred in Tipperary? Amn’t I right in that?’ Mr Coyne enquired.

Haverty said he was. Born and bred in Tipperary, as fine a young horse as ever left the county. A horse you’d like to see doing well.

‘I have nothing against the horse,’ insisted Mr O’Hagan. I’m not saying I have.’

‘Ah sure, we know you haven’t.’ To Tom’s dismay Mr Coyne rapped on the pebbly glass between the bar and the grocery and called out an order for further refreshment. ‘Another lemonade for the boy,’ he instructed, drawing from his glass the dregs of its black liquid. Watching this, Tom felt uneasy in his stomach because the smell the stout gave off made him think that something in it had gone bad. Haverty and Mr O’Hagan drained their glasses also.

‘John Joe’s from Carlow,’ Mr Coyne stated when the freshly poured drinks were placed on the table. ‘Amn’t I right in that?’

Haverty said he believed that was so. A credit to Carlow, he said. And wasn’t the young horse a credit to Tipp?

‘Oh, credit certainly. Credit where credit’s due.’