Originally published in Irish Weekly Magazine 1923 Eight years before he had seen his friend off at the North Wall and wished him God-speed. Gallaher had got on. You could tell that at once by his travelled air, his well-cut tweed suit, and fearless accent. Few fellows had talents like his, and fewer still could remain unspoiled by such success. Gallaher's heart was in the right place and he had deserved to win. It was something to have a friend like that. `Half-time now, boys,' he used to say light-heartedly. `Where's my considering cap?' They clinked glasses and drank the toast. `No, really.'