In fact Wolfe Tone was not executed by the English or anyone else, and the date of his death was November the nineteenth. But that made no difference to either side, because no one in Ballyguttery ever reads history.

The Loyal True-Blue Invincibles did not tear down the posters. They were kindly men, averse to unneighbourly acts. But they put up posters of their own, summoning every man of sound principles to assemble on September fifteenth at 10.30 a.m, in order to preserve law, order, life, property, and liberty, by force if necessary.

Mr. Hinde, District Inspector of Police in Ballyguttery, was considering the situation. He was in an uncomfortable position, for he had only four constables and one sergeant under his command. It seemed to him that law and order would disappear for the time, life and property be in danger, and that he would not be able to interfere very much with anybody's liberty. Mr. Hinde was, however, a young man of naturally optimistic temper. He had lived in Ireland all his life, and he had a profound belief in the happening of unexpected things.

On September the tenth the Wolfe Tone Republicans made a most distressing discovery.

Six months before, they had lent their band instruments to the Thomas Emmet Club, an important association of Nationalists in the neighbouring village.

The Thomas Emmets, faced with a demand for the return of the instruments, confessed that they had lent them to the Martyred Archbishops' branch of the Gaelic League. They, in turn, had lent them to the Manchester Martyrs' Gaelic Football Association. These athletes would, no doubt, have returned the instruments honestly; but unfortunately their association had been suppressed by the Government six weeks earlier and had only just been re-formed as the Irish Ireland National Brotherhood.

In the process of dissolution and reincarnation the band instruments had disappeared. No one knew where they were. The only suggestion the footballers had to make was that the police had taken them when suppressing the Manchester Martyrs. This seemed probable, and the members of the Wolfe Tone Republican Club asked their president, Mr. Cornelius O'Farrelly, to call on Mr. Hinde and inquire into the matter.

Mr. Hinde was surprised, very agreeably surprised, at receiving a visit one evening from the president of the Republican Club. In Ireland, leading politicians, whatever school they belong to, are seldom on friendly terms with the police. He greeted O'Farrelly warmly.

"What I was wishing to speak to you about was this—" O'Farrelly began.

"Fill your pipe before you begin talking," said Mr. Hinde. "Here's some tobacco." He offered his pouch as he spoke. "I wish I could offer you a drink; but there's no whisky to be got nowadays."

"I know that," said O'Farrelly in a friendly tone, "and what's more, I know you'd offer it to me if you had it."

He filled his pipe and lit it. Then he began again: "What I was wishing to speak to you about is the band instruments."

"If you want a subscription—" said Hinde.

"I do not want any subscription."

"That's just as well, for you wouldn't get it if you did. I've no money, for one thing; and besides it wouldn't suit a man in my position to be subscribing to rebel bands."

"I wouldn't ask you," said O'Farrelly. "Don't I know as well as yourself that it would be no use? And anyway it isn't the money we want, but our own band instruments."

"What's happened to them?" said Hinde.

"You had a lot. Last time I saw your band it was fitted out with drums and trumpets enough for a regiment."

"It's just them we're trying to get back."

"If anyone has stolen them," said Hinde, "I'll look into the matter and do my best to catch the thief for you."

"Nobody stole them," said O'Farrelly; "not what you'd call stealing, anyway; but it's our belief that the police has them."

"You're wrong there," said Hinde. "The police never touched your instruments, and wouldn't."

"They might not if they knew they were ours. But from information received we think the police took them instruments the time they were suppressing the Manchester Martyrs beyond the Lisnan, the instruments being lent to them footballers at that time."

"I remember all about that business," said Hinde. "I was there myself. But we never saw your instruments. All we took away with us was two old footballs and a set of rotten goal-posts. Whatever happened to your instruments, we didn't take them. I expect," said Hinde, "that the Manchester Martyr boys pawned them."

O'Farrelly sat silent. It was unfortunately quite possible that the members of the football club had pawned the instruments, intending, of course, to redeem them when the club funds permitted.

"I'm sorry for you," said Hinde. "It's awkward for you losing your drums and things just now, with this demonstration of yours advertised all over the place. You'll hardly be able to hold the demonstration, will you?"

"The demonstration will be held," said O'Farrelly firmly.

"Not without a band, surely. Hang it all, O'Farrelly, a demonstration is no kind of use without a band. It wouldn't be a demonstration. You know that as well as I do."

O'Farrelly was painfully aware that a demonstration without a band is a poor business. He rose sadly and said good night. Hinde felt sorry for him.

"If the police had any instruments," he said, "I'd lend them to you. But we haven't a band of our own here. There aren't enough of us."

This assurance, though it was of no actual use, cheered O'Farrelly. It occurred to him that though the police had no band instruments to lend it might be possible to borrow elsewhere. The Loyal True-Blue Invincibles, for instance, had a very fine band, well supplied in every way, particularly with big drums. O'Farrelly thought the situation over and then called on Jimmy McLoughlin, the blacksmith, who was the secretary of the Orange Lodge.

"Jimmy," said O'Farrelly, "we're in trouble about the demonstration that's to be held next Tuesday."

"It'd be better for you," said Jimmy, "if that demonstration was never held. For let me tell you this: the Lodge boys has their minds made up to have no Papist rebels demonstrating here."

"It isn't you, nor your Orange Lodge nor all the damned Protestants in Ireland would be fit to stop us," said O'Farrelly.

Jimmy McLoughlin spit on his hands as if in preparation for the fray. Then he wiped them on his apron, remembering that the time for fighting had not yet come.

"And what's the matter with your demonstration?" he asked.

"It's the want of instruments for the band that has us held up," said O'Farrelly. "We lent them, so we did, and the fellows that had them didn't return them."

Jimmy McLoughlin pondered the situation. He was as well aware as Mr. Hinde, as O'Farrelly himself, that a demonstration without a band is a vain thing.

"It would be a pity now," he said slowly, "if anything was to interfere with that demonstration, seeing as how you're ready for it and we're ready for you."

"It would be a pity. Leaving aside any political or religious differences that might be dividing the people of Ballyguttery, it would be a pity for the whole of us if that demonstration was not to be held."

"How would it be now," said Jimmy Mc-Loughlin, "if we was to lend you our instruments for the day?"

"We'd be thankful to you if you did, very thankful," said O'Farrelly; "and, indeed, it's no more than I'd expect from you, Jimmy, for you always were a good neighbour. But are you sure that you'll not be wanting them yourselves?"

"We will not want them," said Jimmy Me-Loughlin. "It'll not be drums we'll be beating that day—not drums, but the heads of Papists. But mind what I'm saying to you now. If we lend you the instruments, you'll have to promise that you'll not carry them beyond the cross-roads this side of Dicky's Brae. You'll leave the whole of them there beyond the cross-roads, drums and all. It wouldn't do if any of the instruments got broke on us or the drums lost—which is what has happened more than once when there's been a bit of a fight. And it'll be at Dicky's Brae that we'll be waiting for you."

"I thought as much," said O'Farrelly, "and I'd be as sorry as you'd be yourself if any harm was to come to your drums. They'll be left at the cross-roads the way you tell me. You may take my word for that. You can pick them up there yourselves and take them back with you when you're going home in the evening—those of you that'll be left alive to go home. For we'll be ready for you, Jimmy, and Dicky's Brae will suit us just as well as any other place."

The Wolfe Tone Republicans are honourable men. Their band marched at the head of the procession through the streets of the village. They played all the most seditious tunes there are, and went on playing for half a mile outside the village. The police, headed by Mr. Hinde, followed them. At the cross-roads there was a halt. The bandsmen laid down the instruments very carefully on a pile of stones beside the road. Then they took the fork of the road which leads southwards.

The direct route to Dicky's Brae lies northwest along the other fork of the road. Cornelius O'Farrelly had the instinct of a military commander. His idea was to make a wide detour, march by a cross-road and take the Dicky Brae position in the rear. This would require some time; but the demonstrators had a long day before them, and if the speeches were cut a little short no one would be any the worse.

Jimmy McLoughlin and the members of the Loyal True-Blue Invincibles sat on the roadside at the foot of Dicky's Brae and waited. They expected that the Wolfe Tone Republicans would reach the place about noon. At a quarter to twelve Mr. Hinde and five police arrived. They had with them a cart carefully covered with sacking. No one was in the least disturbed by their appearance. Five police, even with an officer at their head, cannot do much to annoy two armies of sixty and seventy men.

The police halted in the middle of the road. They made no attempt to unload their cart.

At 1.30 Jimmy McLoughlin took council with some of the leading members of the Loyal True-Blue Invincible Lodge. It seemed likely that the Wolfe Tone Republicans had gone off to demonstrate in some other direction, deliberately shirking the fight which had been promised them.

"I'd never have thought it of Cornelius O'Farrelly," said Jimmy sadly. "I had a better opinion of him, so I had. I knew he was a Papist and a rebel and every kind of a blackguard, but I'd never have thought he was a coward."

While he spoke, a small boy came running down the hill. He brought the surprising intelligence that the Wolfe Tone Republicans were advancing in good order from a totally unexpected direction. Jimmy McLoughlin looked round and saw them. So did Mr. Hinde.

While Jimmy summoned his men from the ditches where they were smoking and the fields into which they had wandered, Mr. Hinde gave an order to his police. They took the sacking from their cart. Underneath it were all the band instruments belonging to the Orange Lodge. The police unpacked them carefully and then, loaded with drums and brass instruments, went up the road to meet the Wolfe Tone Republicans.

Jimmy McLoughlin ran to Mr. Hinde, shouting as he went:

"What are you doing with them drums?"

Mr. Hinde turned and waited for them.

"I'm going to hand them over to Cornelius O'Farrelly," he said.

"You're going to do nothing of the sort," said Jimmy, "for they're our drums, so they are."

"I don't know anything about that," said Mr. Hinde, "all I know is that they're the instruments which O'Farrelly's band were playing when they marched out of the town. They left them on the side of the road, where my men found them."

"What right had you to be touching them at all," said Jimmy.

"Every right. O'Farrelly was complaining to me three days ago that one set of band instruments had been stolen from him. It's my business to see that he doesn't lose another set in the same way, even if he's careless enough to leave them lying about on the side of the road."

"Amn't I telling you that they're ours, not his?" said Jimmy.

"You'll have to settle that with him."

"Sure, if I settle that with him," said Jimmy, "in the only way anything could be settled with a pack of rebels, the instruments will be broke into smithereens before we're done."

This seemed very likely. Jimmy McLoughlin's bandsmen, armed with sticks and stones, were forming up on the road. The police had already handed over the largest drum to one of the leading Wolfe Tone Republicans. It was Cornelius O'Farrelly who made an attempt to save the situation.

He came forward and addressed Mr. Hinde. "It would be better," he said, "if you'd march the police off out of this and let them take the band instruments along with them, for if they don't the drums will surely be broke and the rest of the things twisted up so as nobody'll ever be able to blow a tune on them again, which would be a pity and a great loss to all parties concerned."

"I'll take the police away if you like," said Mr. Hinde, "but I'm hanged if I go on carting all those instruments about the country. I found them on the side of the road where you left them, and now that I've given them back to you I'll take no further responsibility in the matter."

The two sets of bandsmen were facing each other on the road. The instruments were divided between them. They were uttering the most bloodthirsty threats, and it was plain that in a minute or two there would be a scrimmage.

"Jimmy," said O'Farrelly, "if the boys get to fighting——"

"I don't know," said Jimmy gloomily, "where the money's to come from to buy new drums."

"It might be better," said O'Farrelly, "if we was to go home and leave the instruments back safe where they came from before worse comes of it."

Ten minutes later the instruments were safely packed again into the cart. One of the Loyal True-Blue Invincibles led the horse. A Wolfe Tone Republican sat in the cart and held the reins. Jimmy McLoughlin and Cornelius O'Farrelly walked together. It was plain to everyone that hostilities were suspended for the day.

"I'm thinking," said Jimmy, "that ye didn't hold your demonstration after all. I hope this'll be a lesson to you not to be trying anything of the sort for the future."

"For all your fine talk," said O'Farrelly, "you didn't stop us. And why not? Because you weren't fit to do it."

"We could have done it," said Jimmy, "and we would But what's the use of talking? So long as no demonstration was held we're satisfied."

"So long as you didn't get interfering with us, we're satisfied."

Mr. Hinde, walking behind the procession with his five police, had perhaps the best reason of all for satisfaction.



VI. STARTING THE TRAIN

Tom O'Donovan leaned as far as possible out of the window of the railway carriage, a first-class smoking carriage.

"Good-bye Jessie, old girl," he said. "I'll be back the day after to-morrow, or the next day at latest. Take care of yourself."

Mrs. O'Donovan, who was not very tall, stood on tip-toe while he kissed her.

"You'll have time enough to get dinner in Dublin," she said, "or will you dine on the boat?"

"They give you a pretty fair dinner on the boat," said Tom, "and it's less fussy to go on board at once."

She had said that to him before, and he had made the same answer; but it is necessary to keep on saying something while waiting for a train to start, and on such occasions there is very seldom anything fresh to say.

"And you'll see Mr. Manners to-morrow morning," she said, after a short pause.

"Appointment for 10.30," said Tom. "I'll breakfast at the Euston Hotel and take the tube to his office. Bye-bye, old girl."

But the "bye-bye," like the kiss, was premature. The train did not start.

"If I get Manners' agency," said Tom, "we'll be on the pig's back. You'll be driving about in a big car with a fur coat on you in the inside of six months."

"Be as fascinating as you can, Tom," she said.

"He'd hardly have asked me to go all the way to London," said Tom, "if he wasn't going to give me the agency."

They had reasoned all that out half-a-dozen times since the letter arrived which summoned Tom to an interview in Mr. Manners' office. There was no doubt that the agency, which meant the sole right of selling the Manners' machines in Ireland, would be exceedingly profitable. And Tom O'Donovan believed that he had secured it.

He glanced at the watch on his wrist.

"I wonder what the deuce we're waiting for," he said.

But passengers on Irish railways now-a-days are all accustomed to trains which do not start, and have learned the lesson of patience. Tom waited, without any sign of irritation, Mrs. O'Donovan chatted pleasantly to him. The train had reached the station in good time. It was due in Dublin two hours before the mail boat left Kingstown. There was no need to feel worried.

Yet at the end of half-an-hour Tom did begin to feel worried. When three-quarters of an hour had passed he became acutely anxious.

"If we don't get a move on soon," he said, "I shall miss the boat, and—I say, Jessie, this is getting serious."

Missing the boat meant missing his appointment in London next morning, and then—why, then Manners would probably give the agency to someone else. Tom opened the door of his carriage and jumped out.

"I'll speak to the guard," he said, "and find out what's the matter."

The guard, a fat, good-humoured looking man, was talking earnestly to the engine driver. Tom O'Donovan addressed him explosively.

"Why the devil don't you go on?" he said.

"The train is not going on to-day," said the guard. "It'll maybe never go on at all."

"Why not?"

It was the engine driver who replied. He was a tall, grave man, and he spoke with dignity, as if he were accustomed to making public speeches on solemn occasions.

"This train," he said, "will not be used for the conveyance of the armed forces of the English Crown, which country is presently at war with the Irish Republic."

"There's soldiers got into the train at this station," said the guard, in a friendly explanatory tone, "and the way things is it wouldn't suit us to be going on, as long as them ones," he pointed to the rear of the train with his thumb, "stays where they are."

"But—oh, hang it all!—if the train doesn't go cm I shall miss the mail boat at Kingstown, and if I'm not in London to-morrow morning I shall lose the best part of L1,000 a year."

"That would be a pity now," said the guard. "And I'd be sorry for any gentleman to be put to such a loss. But what can we do? The way things is at the present time it wouldn't suit either the driver or me to be taking the train on while there'd be soldiers in it. It's queer times we're having at present and that's a fact."

The extreme queerness of the times offered no kind of consolation to Tom O'Donovan. But he knew it was no good arguing with the guard.

He contented himself with the fervent expression of an opinion which he honestly held.

"It would be a jolly good thing for everybody," he said, "if the English army and the Irish Republic and your silly war and every kind of idiot who goes in for politics were put into a pot together and boiled down for soup."

He turned and walked away. As he went he heard the guard expressing mild agreement with his sentiment.

"It might be," said the guard. "I wouldn't say but that might be the best in the latter end."

Tom O'Donovan, having failed with the guard and the engine driver, made up his mind to try what he could do with the soldiers. He was not very hopeful of persuading them to leave the train; but his position was so nearly desperate that he was unwilling to surrender any chance. He found a smart young sergeant and six men of the Royal Wessex Light Infantry seated in a third-class carriage. They wore shrapnel helmets, and their rifles were propped up between their knees.

"Sergeant," said Tom, "I suppose you know you are holding up the whole train."

"My orders, sir," said the sergeant, "is to travel—-"

"Oh, I know all about your orders. But look here. It would suit you just as well to hold up the next train. There's another in two hours, and you can get into it and sit in it all night. But if you don't let this train go on I shall miss the boat at Kingstown, and if I'm not in London to-morrow morning I stand to lose L1,000 a year."

"Very sorry, sir," said the sergeant, "but my orders—I'd be willing to oblige, especially any gentleman who is seriously inconvenienced. But orders is orders, sir."

Jessie O'Donovan, who had been following her husband up and down the platform, caught his arm.

"What is the matter, Tom?" she said. "If the train doesn't start soon you'll miss the boat. Why don't they go on?"

"Oh, politics, as usual, Jessie," said Tom. "I declare to goodness it's enough to make a man want to go to heaven before his time, just to be able to live under an absolute monarchy where there can't be any politics. But I'm not done yet. I'll have another try at getting along before I chuck the whole thing up. Is there a girl anywhere about, a good-looking girl?"

"There's the young woman in the bookstalls," said Jessie, "but she's not exactly pretty. What do you want a girl for?"

Tom glanced at the bookstall.

"She won't do at all," he said. "They all know her, and, besides, she doesn't look the part. But I know where I'll get the girl I want. Jessie, do you run over to the booking office and buy two third-class returns to Dublin."

He left her standing on the platform while he jumped on to the line behind the train, crossed it, and climbed the other platform. She saw him pass through the gate and run along the road to the town. Being a loyal and obedient wife she went to the booking office and bought two tickets, undisturbed by the knowledge that her husband was running fast in search of a girl, a good-looking girl.

Tom O'Donovan, having run a hundred yards at high speed, entered a small tobacconist's shop. Behind the counter was a girl, young and very pretty. She was one of those girls whose soft appealing eyes and general look of timid helplessness excite first the pity, then the affection of most men.

"Susie," said Tom O'Donovan, breathlessly, "ran upstairs and put on your best dress and your nicest hat and all the ribbons and beads you have. Make yourself look as pretty as you can, but don't be more than ten minutes over the job, And send your father to me."

Tom O'Donovan was a regular and valued customer. Susie had known him as a most agreeable gentleman since she was ten years old. She saw that he was in a hurry and occupied with some important affair. She did as he told her without stopping to ask any questions. Two minutes later her father entered the shop from the room behind it.

"Farrelly," said Tom O'Donovan, "I want the loan of your daughter for about four hours. She'll be back by the last train down from Dublin."

"If it was any other gentleman only yourself, Mr. O'Donovan, who asked me the like of that I'd kick him out of the shop."

"Oh! it's all right," said Tom, "my wife will be with her the whole time and bring her back safe."

"I'm not asking what you want her for, Mr. O'Donovan," said Farrelly, "but if it was any other gentleman only yourself I would ask."

"I want to take her up to Dublin along with my wife," said Tom, "and send her down by the next train. I'd explain the whole thing to you if I had time, but I haven't. All I can tell you is that I'll most likely lose L1,000 a year if I don't get Susie."

"Say no more, Mr. O'Donovan," said Far-relly. "If that's the way of it you and Mrs. O'Donovan can have the loan of Susie for as long as pleases you."

Susie changed her dress amazingly quickly. She was back in the shop in six minutes, wearing a beautiful blue hat, a frock that was almost new, and three strings of beads round her neck.

"Come on," said O'Donovan, "we haven't a minute to lose."

They walked together very quickly to the station.

"Susie," said Tom, "I'm going to put you into a carriage by yourself, and when you get there you're to sit in a corner and cry. If you can't cry——"

"I can if I like," said Susie.

"Very well, then do. Get your eyes red and your face swollen and have tears running down your cheeks if you can manage it, and when I come for you again you're to sob. Don't speak a word no matter what anyone says to you, but sob like—like a motor bicycle."

"I will," said Susie.

"And if you do it well, I'll buy you the smartest blouse in London to-morrow and bring it home to you."

When they reached the station they jumped down from the platform and crossed the line to the train. Tom opened the door of an empty third-class carriage and pushed Susie into it. Then he went round to the back of the train and climbed on to the platform.

He made straight for the carriage in which the soldiers sat.

"Sergeant," he said, "will you come along with me for a minute?"

The sergeant, who was beginning to find his long vigil rather dull, warned his men to stay where they were. Then he got out and followed Tom O'Donovan. Tom led him to the carriage in which Susie sat. The girl had done very well since he left her. Her eyes were red and swollen. Her cheeks were slobbered. She held a handkerchief in her hand rolled into a tight damp ball.

"You see that girl," said Tom.

"Yes, sir," said the sergeant. "Seems to be in trouble, sir."

"She's in perfectly frightful trouble," said Tom. "She's on her way to Dublin—or she would be if this train would start—so as to catch the night mail to Cork. She was to have been married in Cork to-morrow morning and to have gone off to America by a steamer which leaves Queenstown at 10.30 a.m. Now of course, the whole thing is off. She won't get to Dublin or Cork, and so can't be married."

Susie, when she heard this pitiful story, sobbed convulsively.

"It's very sad," said Tom.

The sergeant, a nice, tender-hearted young man, looked at Susie's pretty face and was greatly affected.

"Perhaps her young man will wait for her, sir," he said.

"He can't do that," said Tom. "The fact is that he's a demobilised soldier, served all through the war and won the V.C. And the Sinn Feiners have warned him that he'll be shot if he isn't out of the country before midday to-morrow."

Susie continued to sob with great vigour and intensity. The sergeant was deeply moved.

"It's cruel hard, sir," he said. "But my orders——"

"I'm not asking you to disobey orders," said Tom, "but in a case like this, for the sake of that poor young girl and the gallant soldier who wants to marry her—a comrade of your own, sergeant. You may have known him out in France—I think you ought to stretch a point. Listen to me now!"

He drew the sergeant away from the door of the carriage and whispered to him.

"I'll do it, sir," said the sergeant. "My orders say nothing about that point."

"You do what I suggest," said Tom, "and I'll fix things up with the guard."

He found the guard and the engine driver awaiting events in the station-master's office. They were quite willing to follow him to the carriage in which Susie sat. They listened with deep emotion to the story which Tom told them. It was exactly the same story which he told the sergeant, except this time the bridegroom was a battalion commander of the Irish Volunteers whose life was threatened by a malignant Black-and-Tan. Susie sobbed as bitterly as before.

"It's a hard case, so it is," said the guard, "and if there was any way of getting the young lady to Dublin——"

"There's only one way," said Tom, "and that's to take on this train."

"It's what we can't do," said the engine driver, "not if all the girls in Ireland was wanting to get married. So long as the armed forces of England——"

"But they're not armed," said Tom.

"Michael." said the engine driver to the guard, "did you not tell me that them soldiers has guns with them and tin hats on their heads?"

"I did tell you that," said the guard, "and I told you the truth."

"My impression is," said Tom, "that those soldiers aren't armed at all. They seem to be a harmless set of men off to Dublin on leave, very likely going to be married themselves. They're certainly not on duty."

The engine driver scratched his head.

Susie, inspired by a wink from Tom, broke into a despairing wail.

"If that's the way of it," said the engine driver, "it would be different, of course."

"Come and see," said Tom.

The sergeant and his men were sitting in their compartment smoking cigarettes. Their heads were bare. Most of them had their tunics unbuttoned. One of them was singing a song, in which the whole party joined:

"Mary, Jane and Polly Find it very jolly When we take them out with us to Tea—tea—tea!"

There was not a single rifle to be seen anywhere.

"There now," said Tom. "You see for yourselves. You can't call those men munitions of war."

The guard, who had seen the soldiers march into the station, was puzzled; but the engine driver seemed convinced that there had been some mistake.

"I'll do it," he said, "for the sake of the young girl and the brave lad that wants to marry her, I'll take the train to Dublin."

"Well, hurry up," said Tom. "Drive that old engine of yours for all she's worth."

The driver hastened to his post. The guard blew his whistle shrilly. Tom seized his wife by the arm.

"Hop into the carriage with Susie Farrelly," he said. "Dry her eyes, and tell her I'll spend L5 on a silk blouse for her, pink or blue or any colour she likes. I'll explain the whole thing to you when we get to Dublin. I can't travel with you. The guard is only half convinced and might turn suspicious if he saw us together."

Tom O'Donovan caught, just caught the mail boat at Kingstown. He secured the agency for the sale of the Manners' machines in Ireland. He is in a fair way to becoming a very prosperous man; but it is unlikely that he will ever be a member either of Parliament or Dail Eireann. He says that politics interfere with business.



VII. UNLAWFUL POSSESSION

When Willie Thornton, 2nd Lieutenant in the Wessex Fusiliers, was sent to Ireland, his mother was nervous and anxious. She had an idea that the shooting of men in uniform was a popular Irish sport and that her boy would have been safer in Germany, Mesopotamia, or even Russia. Willie, who looked forward to some hunting with a famous Irish pack, laughed at his mother. It was his turn to be nervous and anxious when, three weeks after joining his battalion, he received an independent command. He was a cheerful boy and he was not in the least afraid that anyone would shoot him or his men. But the way the Colonel talked to him made him uncomfortable.

"There's your village," said the Colonel.

William peered at the map spread on the orderly-room table, and saw, in very small print, the name Dunedin. It stood at a place where many roads met, where there was a bridge across a large river.

"You'll billet the men in your Court House," said the Colonel, "and you'll search every motor that goes through that village to cross the bridge."

"For arms, sir?" said Willie.

"For arms or ammunition," said the Colonel. "And you'll have to keep your eyes open, Thornton. These fellows are as cute as foxes. There isn't a trick they're not up to and they'll tell you stories plausible enough to deceive the devil himself."

That was what made Willie Thornton nervous. He would have faced the prospects of a straight fight with perfect self-confidence. He was by no means so sure of himself when it was a matter of outwitting men who were as cute as foxes; and "these fellows" was an unpleasantly vague description. It meant, no doubt, the Irish enemy, who, indeed, neither the Colonel nor Willie could manage to regard as an enemy at all. But it gave him very little idea of the form in which the enemy might present himself.

On the evening of Good Friday Willie marched his men into Dunedin and took possession of the Court House. That day was chosen because Easter is the recognized season for Irish rebellions, just as Christmas is the season for plum puddings in England, and May Day the time for Labour riots on the Continent. It is very convenient for everybody concerned to have these things fixed. People know what to expect and preparations can be properly made. The weather was abominably wet. The village of Dunedin was muddy and looked miserable. The Court House, which seldom had fires in it, was damp and uncomfortable. Willie unloaded the two wagons which brought his men, kit, and rations, and tried to make the best of things.

The next day was also wet, but Willie, weighted by a sense of responsibility, got up early. By six o'clock he had the street which led to the bridge barricaded in such a way that no motor-car could possibly rush past. He set one of his wagons across the street with its back to the house and its pole sticking out. In this position it left only a narrow passage through which any vehicle could go. He set the other wagon a little lower down with its back to the houses on the opposite side of the street and its pole sticking out. Anyone driving towards the bridge would have to trace a course like the letter S, and, the curves being sharp, would be compelled to go very slowly, Willie surveyed this arrangement with satisfaction. But to make quite sure of holding up the traffic he stretched a rope from one wagon pole to the other so as to block the centre part of the S. Then he posted his sentries and went into the Court House to get some breakfast.

The people of Dunedin do not get up at six o'clock. Nowadays, owing to the imposition of "summer time" and the loss of Ireland's half-hour of Irish time, six o'clock is really only half-past four, and it is worse than folly to get out of bed at such an hour. It was eight o'clock by Willie Thornton's watch before the people became aware of what had happened to their street. They were surprised and full of curiosity, but they were not in the least annoyed. No one in Dunedin had the slightest intention of rebelling. No one even wanted to shoot a policeman. The consciences, even of the most ardent politicians, were clear, and they could afford to regard the performance of the soldiers as an entertainment provided free for their benefit by a kindly Government. That was, in fact, the view which the people of Dunedin took of Willie Thornton's barricade, and of his sentries, though the sentries ought to have inspired awe, for they carried loaded rifles and wore shrapnel helmets.

The small boys of the village—and there are enormous numbers of small boys in Dunedin—were particularly interested. They tried the experiment of passing through the barricade, stooping under the rope when they came to it, just to see what the soldiers would do. The soldiers did nothing. The boys then took to jumping over the rope, which they could do when going downhill, though they had to creep under it on the way back. This seemed to amuse and please the soldiers, who smiled amiably at each successful jump. Kerrigan, the butcher, encouraged by the experience of the small boys, made a solemn progress from the top of the street to the bridge. He is the most important and the richest man in Dunedin, and it was generally felt that if the soldiers let him pass the street might be regarded as free to anyone. Kerrigan is a portly man, who could not have jumped the rope, and would have found it inconvenient to crawl under it. The soldiers politely loosed one end of the rope and let him walk through.

At nine o'clock a farmer's cart, laden with manure, crossed the bridge and began to climb the street. Willie Thornton came to the door of the Court House with a cigarette in his mouth and watched the cart. It was hoped by the people of Dunedin, especially by the small boys, that something would happen. Foot passengers might be allowed to pass, but a wheeled vehicle would surely be stopped. But the soldiers loosed the rope and let the cart go through without a question. Ten minutes later a governess cart, drawn by a pony, appeared at the top of the street. It, too, was passed through the barricade without difficulty. There was a general feeling of disappointment in the village, and most of the people went back to their houses. It was raining heavily, and it is foolish to get wet through when there is no prospect of any kind of excitement. The soldiers, such was the general opinion, were merely practising some unusual and quite incomprehensible military manouvre.

The opinion was a mistaken one. The few who braved the rain and stood their ground watching the soldiers, had their reward later on. At ten o'clock, Mr. Davoren, the auctioneer, drove into the village in his motor-car. Mr. Davoren lives in Ballymurry, a town of some size, six miles from Dunedin. His business requires him to move about the country a good deal, and he is quite wealthy enough to keep a Ford car. His appearance roused the soldiers to activity. Willie Thornton, without a cigarette this time, stood beside the barricade. A sentry, taking his place in the middle of the street, called to Mr. Davoren to halt. Mr. Davoren, who was coming along at a good pace, was greatly surprised, but he managed to stop his car and his engine a few feet from the muzzle of the sentry's rifle.

Willie Thornton, speaking politely but firmly, told Mr. Davoren to get out of the car. He did not know the auctioneer, and had no way of telling whether he was one of "these fellows" or not. The fact that Mr. Davoren looked most respectable and fat was suspicious. A cute fox might pretend to be respectable and fat when bent on playing tricks. Mr. Davoren, still surprised but quite good-humoured, got out of his car. Willie Thornton and his sergeant searched it thoroughly. They found nothing in the way of a weapon more deadly than a set of tyre levers. Mr. Davoren was told he might go on. In the end he did go on, but not until he, the sergeant, Willie Thornton, and one of the sentries had worked themselves hot at the starting-crank. Ford engines are queer-tempered things, with a strong sense of self-respect. When stopped accidentally and suddenly, they often stand on their dignity and refuse to go on again. All this was pleasant and exciting for the people of Dunedin, who felt that they were not wasting their day or getting wet in vain. And still better things were in store for them. At eleven o'clock a large and handsome car appeared at the end of the street. It moved noiselessly and swiftly towards the barricade. The chauffeur, leaning back behind his glass screen, drove as if the village and the street belonged to him. Dunedin is, in fact, the property of his master, the Earl of Ramelton; so the chauffeur had some right to be stately and arrogant. Every man, woman, and child in Dunedin knew the car, and there was tiptoe excitement. Would the soldiers venture to stop and search this car? The excitement became intense when it was seen that the Earl himself was in the car. He lay back very comfortably smoking a cigar in the covered tonneau of the limousine. Lord Ramelton is a wealthy man and Deputy Lieutenant for the county. He sits and sometimes speaks in the House of Lords. He is well known as an uncompromising Unionist, whose loyalty to the king and empire is so firm as to be almost aggressive.

There was a gasp of amazement when the sentry, standing with his rifle in his hands, called "Halt!" He gave the order to the earl's chauffeur quite as abruptly and disrespectfully as he had given it to Mr. Davoren. The chauffeur stopped the car and leaned back in his seat with an air of detachment and slight boredom. It was his business to stop or start the car and to drive where he was told. Why it was stopped or started or where it went were matters of entire indifference to him. Lord Ramelton let down the window beside him and put out his head.

"What the devil is the matter?" he said.

He spoke to the chauffeur, but it was Willie Thornton who answered him.

"I'm afraid I must trouble you to get out of the car, sir; you and the chauffeur."

He had spoken quite as civilly to Mr. Davoren half an hour before. He added "sir" this time because Lord Ramelton is an oldish man, and Willie Thornton had been well brought up and taught by his mother that some respect is due to age. He did not know that he was speaking to an earl and a very great man. Lord Ramelton was not in the least soothed by the civility.

"Drive on, Simpkins," he said to the chauffeur.

Simpkins would have driven on if the sentry had not been standing, with a rifle in his hands, exactly in front of the car. He did the next best thing to driving on. He blew three sharp blasts of warning on his horn. The sentry took no notice of the horn. The men of the Wessex Fusiliers are determined and well-disciplined fellows. Willie Thornton's orders mattered to that sentry. Lord Ramelton's did not. Nor did the chauffeur's horn.

Willie Thornton stepped up to the window of the car. He noticed as he did so that an earl's coronet surmounting the letter R was painted on the door. He spoke apologetically, but he was still quite firm. A coronet painted on the door of a car is no proof that the man inside is an earl. The Colonel had warned Willie that "these fellows" were as cute as foxes.

"I'm afraid I must trouble you to get out, sir," said Willie. "My orders are to search every car that goes through the village."

Lord Ramelton had once been a soldier himself. He knew that the word "orders" has a sacred force.

"Oh, all right," he said. "It's damned silly; but if you've got to do it, get it over as quick as you can."

He turned up the collar of his coat and stepped out into the rain. The chauffeur left his seat and stood in the mud with the air of a patient but rather sulky martyr. What is the use of belonging to the aristocracy of labour, of being a member of the Motor Drivers' Union, of being able to hold up civilisation to ransom, if you are yourself liable to be held up and made to stand in the rain by a common soldier, a man no better than an unskilled labourer. Nothing but the look of the rifle in the unskilled labourer's hand would have induced Simpkins to leave his sheltered place in the car.

Willie Thornton had every intention of conducting his search rapidly, perhaps not very thoroughly. Lord Ramelton's appearance, his voice, and the coronet on the panel, all taken together, were convincing evidence that he was not one of "these fellows," and might safely be allowed to pass.

Unfortunately there was something in the car which Willie did not in the least expect to find there. In the front of the tonneau was a large packing-case. It was quite a common-looking packing-case made of rough wood. The lid was neatly but firmly nailed down. It bore on its side in large black letters the word "cube sugar".

Willie's suspicions were aroused. The owners of handsome and beautifully-upholstered cars do not usually drive about with packing-cases full of sugar at their feet. And this was a very large case. It contained a hundredweight or a hundredweight and a half of sugar—if it contained sugar at all. The words of the Colonel recurred to Willie: "There's not a trick they're not up to. They'd deceive the devil himself." Well, no earl or pretended earl should deceive Willie Thornton. He gave an order to the sergeant.

"Take that case and open it," he said.

"Damn it," said the Earl, "you mustn't do that."

"My orders," said Willie, "are to examine every car thoroughly."

"But if you set that case down in the mud and open it in this downpour of rain the—the contents will be spoiled."

"I can't help that, sir," said Willie. "My orders are quite definite."

"Look here," said Lord Ramelton, "if I give you my word that there are no arms or ammunition in that case, if I write a statement to that effect and sign it, will it satisfy you?"

"No, sir," said Willie. "Nothing will satisfy me except seeing for myself."

Such is the devotion to duty of the young British officer. Against his spirit the rage of the empire's enemies breaks in vain. Nor are the statements of "these fellows," however plausible, of much avail.

Lord Ramelton swallowed, with some difficulty, the language which gathered on his tongue's tip.

"Where's your superior officer?" he said.

Willie Thornton believed that all his superior officers were at least ten miles away. He had not noticed—nor had anyone else—that a grey military motor had driven into the village. In the grey motor was a General, with two Staff Officers, all decorated with red cap-bands and red tabs on their coats.

The military authorities were very much in earnest over the business of searching motor-cars and guarding roads. Only at times of serious danger do Generals, accompanied by Staff Officers, go out in the wet to visit outpost detachments commanded by subalterns.

The General left his car and stepped across the road. He recognised Lord Ramelton at once and greeted him with cheery playfulness.

"Hallo!" he said, "Held up! I never expected you to be caught smuggling arms about the country."

"I wish you'd tell this boy to let me drive on," said Lord Ramelton. "I'm getting wet through."

The General turned to Willie Thornton.

"What's the matter?" he said.

Willie was pleasantly conscious that he had done nothing except obey his orders. He saluted smartly.

"There's a packing-case in the car, sir," he said, "and it ought to be examined."

The General looked into Lord Ramelton's car and saw the packing-case. He could scarcely deny that it might very easily contain cartridges, that it was indeed exactly the sort of case which should be opened. He turned to Lord Ramelton.

"It's marked sugar," he said. "What's in it really?"

Lord Ramelton took the General by the arm and led him a little way up the street. When they were out of earshot of the crowd round the car he spoke in a low voice.

"It is sugar," he said. "I give you my word that there's nothing it that case except sugar."

"Good Lord!" said the General. "Of course, when you say so it's all right, Ramelton. But would you mind telling me why you want to go driving about the country with two or three hundredweight of sugar in your ear?"

"It's not my sugar at all," said Lord Ramelton. "It's my wife's. You know the way we're rationed for sugar now—half a pound a head and the servants eat all of it. Well, her ladyship is bent on making some marmalade and rhubarb jam. I don't know how she did it, but she got some sugar from a man at Ballymurry. Wangled it. Isn't that the word?"

"Seems exactly the word," said the General.

"And I'm bringing it home to her. That's all."

"I see," said the General. "But why not have let the officer see what was in the case? Sugar is no business of his, and you'd have saved a lot of time and trouble."

"Because a village like this is simply full of spies."

"Spies!" said the General. "If I thought there were spies here I'd——"

"Oh, not the kind of spies you mean. The Dunedin people are far too sensible for that sort of thing. But if one of the shopkeepers here found out that a fellow in Ballymurry had been doing an illicit sugar deal he'd send a letter off to the Food Controller straightaway. A man up in Dublin was fined L100 the other day for much less than we're doing. I don't want my name in every newspaper in the kingdom for obtaining sugar by false pretences."

"All right," said the General. "Its nothing to me where you get your sugar."

Willie Thornton, much to his relief, was ordered to allow the Earl's car to proceed, un-searched. The chauffeur, who was accustomed to be dry and warm, caught a nasty chill, and was in a bad temper for a week. He wrote to the Secretary of his Union complaining of the brutal way in which the military tyrannised over the representatives of skilled labour. The people of Dunedin felt that they had enjoyed a novel and agreeable show. Lady Ramelton made a large quantity of rhubarb jam, thirty pots of marmalade, and had some sugar over for the green gooseberries when they grew large enough to preserve.



VIII. A SOUL FOR A LIFE

Denis Ryan and Mary Drennan stood together at the corner of the wood where the road turns off and runs straight for a mile into the town. They were young, little more than boy and girl, but they were lovers and they stood together, as lovers do. His left arm was round her. His right hand held her hand. Her head rested on his shoulder.

"Mary, darling," he whispered, "what's to hinder us being married soon?"

She raised her head from his shoulder and looked tenderly into his eyes.

"If it wasn't for my mother and my father, we might," she said; "but they don't like you, Denis, and they'll never consent."

Money comes between lovers sometimes; but it was not money, nor the want of it, which kept Mary and Denis apart. She was the daughter of a prosperous farmer—a rich man, as riches are reckoned in Ireland. He was a clerk in a lawyer's office, and poorly paid. But he might have earned more. She would gladly have given up anything. And the objections of parents in such cases are not insuperable. But between these two there was something more. Denis Ryan was a revolutionary patriot. Mary Drennan's parents were proud of another loyalty. They hated what Denis loved. The two loyalties were strong and irreconcilable, like the loyalties of the South and the North when the South and the North were at war in America.

"What does it matter about your father and mother?" he said. "If you love me, Mary, isn't that enough?"

She hid her face cm his shoulder again. He could barely hear the murmur of her answer.

"I love you altogether, Denis! I love you so much that I would give my soul for you!"

A man came down the road walking fast. He passed the gate of Drennan's farm and came near the corner where the lovers stood. Denis took his arm from Mary's waist, and they moved a little apart. The man stopped when he came to them.

"Good-evening, Denis!" he said. "Good-evening, Miss Drennan!"

The greeting was friendly enough, but he looked at the girl with unfriendly eyes.

"Don't forget the meeting to-night, Denis!" he said. "It's in Flaherty's barn at nine o'clock. Mind, now! It's important, and you'll be expected!"

The words were friendly, but there was the hint of a threat in the way they were spoken. Without waiting for an answer, he walked on quickly towards the town. Mary stretched out her hands and clung tight to her lover's arm. She looked up at him, and fear was in her face.

"What is it, Denis?" she asked. "What does Michael Murnihan want with you?"

Women in Ireland have reason to be frightened now. Their lovers, their husbands, and their sons may be members of a secret society, or they may incur the enmity of desperate men. No woman knows for certain that the life of the man she loves is safe.

"What's the meeting, Denis?" she whispered. "What does he want you to do?"

He neither put his arm round her nor took her hand again.

"It's nothing, Mary," he said. "It's nothing at all!"

But she was more disquieted at his words, for he turned his face away from her when he spoke.

"What is, it?" she whispered again. "Tell me, Denis!"

"It's a gentleman down from Dublin that's to talk to the boys to-night," he said, "and the members of the club must be there to listen to him. It will be about learning Irish that he'll talk, maybe, or not enlisting in the English Army."

"Is that all, Denis? Are you sure now that's all? Will he not want you to do anything?"

That part of the country was quiet enough. But elsewhere there were raidings of houses, attacks on police barracks, shootings, woundings, murders; and afterwards arrests, imprisonments, and swift, wild vengeance taken. Mary was afraid of what the man from Dublin might want. Denis turned to her, and she could see that he was frightened too.

"Mary, Mary!" he said. "Whatever comes or goes, there'll be no harm done to you or yours!"

She loosed her hold on his arm and turned from him with a sigh.

"I must be going from you now, Denis," she said, "Mother will be looking for me, and the dear God knows what she'd say if she knew I'd been here talking to you."

Mrs. Drennan knew very well where her daughter had been. She spoke her mind plainly when Mary entered the farm kitchen.

"I'll not have you talking or walking with Denis Ryan," she said; "nor your father won't have it! Everybody knows what he is, and what his friends are. There's nothing too bad for those fellows to do, and no daughter of mine will mix herself up with them!"

"Denis isn't doing anything wrong, mother," said Mary. "And if he thinks Ireland ought to be a free republic, hasn't he as good a right to his own opinion as you or me, or my father either?"

"No man has a right to be shooting and murdering innocent people, whether they're policemen or whatever they are. And that's what Denis Ryan and the rest of them are at, day and night, all over the country. And if they're not doing it here yet, they soon will. Blackguards, I call them, and the sooner they're hanged the better, every one of them!"

In Flaherty's barn that night the gentleman from Dublin spoke to an audience of some twenty or thirty young men He spoke with passion and conviction. He told again the thousand times repeated story of the wrongs which Ireland has suffered at the hands of the English in old, old days. He told of more recent happenings, of men arrested and imprisoned without trial, without even definite accusation, of intolerable infringements of the common rights. He spoke of the glorious hope of national liberty, of Ireland as a free Republic. The men he spoke too, young men all of them, listened with flashing eyes, with clenched teeth, and faces moist with emotion. They responded to his words with sudden growings and curses. The speaker went on to tell of the deeds of men elsewhere in Ireland. "The soldiers of the Irish Republic," so he called them. They had attacked the armed forces of English rule. They had stormed police barracks. They had taken arms and ammunitions where such things were to be found. These, he said, were glorious deeds wrought by men everywhere in Ireland.

"But what have you done here?" he asked. "And what do you mean to do?"

Michael Murnihan spoke next. He said that he was ashamed of the men around him and of the club to which he belonged.

"It's a reproach to us," he said, "that we're the only men in Ireland that have done nothing. Are we ready to fight when the day for fighting comes? We are not. For what arms have we among us? Only two revolvers. Two revolvers, and that's all. Not a gun, though you know well, and I know, that there's plenty of guns round about us in the hands of men that are enemies to Ireland. I could name twenty houses in the locality where there are guns, and good guns, and you could name as many more. Why don't we go and take them? Are we cowards?"

The men around him shouted angrily that they were no cowards. Denis Ryan, excited and intensely moved, shouted with the rest. It seemed to him that an intolerable reproach lay on him and all of them.

"What's to hinder us going out to-night?" said Murnihan. "Why shouldn't we take the guns that ought to be in our hands and not in the hands of men who'd use them against us? All of you that are in favour of going out tonight will hold up your hands."

There was a moment's silence. None of the men present had ever taken part in any deed of violence, had ever threatened human life or openly and flagrantly broken the law. The delegate from Dublin, standing near Murnihan, looked round at the faces of the men. There was a cool, contemptuous smile on his lips.

"Perhaps," he said, "you'd rather not do it. Perhaps you'd rather go away and tell the police that I'm here with you. They'll be glad of the information. You'll get a reward, I dare say. Anyhow, you'll be safe."

Stung by his reproach, the young men raised their hands one after another. Denis Ryan raised his, though it trembled when he held it up.

"So we're all agreed," said Murnihan. "Then we'll do it to-night. Where will we go first?"

There was no lack of suggestions. The men knew the locality in which they lived and knew the houses where there were arms. Sporting guns in many houses, revolvers in some, rifles in one or two.

"There's a service rifle in Drennan's," said Murnihan, "that belonged to that nephew of his that was out in France, fighting for the English, and there's a double-barrelled shotgun there, too."

"Drennan is no friend of ours," said a man. "He was always an enemy of Ireland."

"And Drennan's away at the fair at Ballyruddery, with his bullocks," said another. "There'll be nobody in the house—only his wife and daughter. They'll not be able to interfere with us."

Murnihan asked for ten volunteers. Every man in the room, except Denis Ryan, crowded round him, offering to go.

"Eight will be enough," said Murnihan. "Two to keep watch on the road, two to keep the women quiet, and four to search the house for arms."

He looked round as he spoke. His eyes rested distrustfully on Denis Ryan, who stood by himself apart from the others. In secret societies and among revolutionaries, a man who appears anything less than enthusiastic must be regarded with suspicion.

"Are you coming with us, Denis Ryan?" asked Murnihan.

There was silence in the room for a minute. All eyes were fixed on Denis. There was not a man in the room who did not know how things were between him and Mary Drennan. There was not one who did not feel that Denis' faithfulness was doubtful And each man realised that his own safety, perhaps his own life, depended on the entire fidelity of all his fellows. Denis felt the sudden suspicion. He saw in the faces around him the merciless cruelty which springs from fear. But he said nothing. It was the delegate from Dublin who broke the silence. He, too, seemed to understand the situation. He realised, at all events, that for some reason this one man was unwilling to take part in the raid. He pointed his finger at Denis.

"That man," he said, "must go, and must take a leading part!"

So, and not otherwise, could they make sure of one who might be a traitor.

"I'm willing to go," said Denis. "I'm not wanting to hang back."

Murnihan drew two revolvers from his pocket. He handed one of them to Denis.

"You'll stand over the old woman with that pointed at her head," he said. "The minute we enter the house we'll call to her to put her hands up, and if she resists you'll shoot. But there'll be no need of shooting. She'll stand quiet enough!"

Denis stepped back, refusing to take the revolver.

"Do it yourself, Murnihan," he said, "if it has to be done!"

"I'm not asking you to do what I'm not going to do myself. I'm taking the other revolver, and I'll keep the girl quiet!"

"But—but," said Denis, stammering, "I'm not accustomed to guns. I've never had a revolver in my hand in my life. I'm—I'm afraid of it!"

He spoke the literal truth. He had never handled firearms of any sort, and a revolver in the hands of an inexperienced man is of all weapons the most dangerous. Nevertheless, with Murnihan's eye upon him, with the ring of anxious, threatening faces round him, he took the revolver.

An hour later, eight men walked quietly up to the Drennan's house. They wore black masks. Their clothes and figures were rudely but sufficiently disguised with wisps of hay tied to their arms and legs. Two of them carried revolvers. At the gate of the rough track which leads from the high road to the farmhouse the party halted. There was a whispered word of command. Two men detached themselves and stood as sentries on the road. Six men, keeping in the shadow of the trees, went forward to the house. A single light gleamed in one of the windows. Murnihan knocked at the door. There was no response. He knocked again. The light moved from the window through which it shone, and disappeared. Once more Murnihan knocked. A woman's voice was heard.

"Who's there at this time of night?"

"In the name of the Irish Republic, open the door!" said Murnihan. "Open, or I'll break it down!"

"You may break it if you please!" It was Mrs. Drennan who spoke. "But I'll not open to thieves and murderers!"

The door of an Irish farmhouse is a frail thing ill-calculated to withstand assault. Murnihan flung himself against it, and it yielded. He stepped into the kitchen with his revolver in his hand. Denis Ryan was beside him. Behind him were the other four men pressing in. In the chimney nook, in front of the still glowing embers of the fire, were Mrs. Drennan and her daughter. Mary stood, fearlessly, holding a candle in a steady hand. Mrs. Drennan was more than fearless. She was defiant. She had armed herself with a long-handled hay-fork, which she held before her threateningly, as a soldier holds a rifle with a bayonet fixed.

"Put up your hands and stand still," said Murnihan, "both of you!"

"Put up your hands!" said Denis, and he pointed the revolver at Mrs. Drennan.

The old woman was undaunted.

"You murdering blackguards!" she shouted. "Would you shoot a woman?"

Then she rushed at him, thrusting with the hay-fork. Denis stepped back, and back again, until he stood in the doorway. One of the sharp prongs of the hay-fork grazed his hand, and slipped up his arm tearing his skin. Involuntarily, his hand clutched the revolver. His forefinger tightened on the trigger. There was a sharp explosion. The hay-fork dropped from Mrs. Drennan's hand. She flung her arms up, half turned, and then collapsed, all crumpled up, to the ground.

Mary Drennan sprang forward and bent over her.

There was dead silence in the room. The men stood horror-stricken, mute, helpless. They had intended—God knows what. To fight for liberty! To establish an Irish Republic! To prove themselves brave patriots! They had not intended this. The dead woman lay on the floor before their eyes, her daughter bent over her. Denis Ryan stood for a moment staring wildly, the hand which held the revolver hanging limp. Then he slowly raised his other hand and held it before his eyes.

Mary Drennan moaned.

"We'd better clear out of this!" said Murnihan. He spoke in a low tone, and his voice trembled.

"Clear out of this, all of you!" he said, "And get home as quick as you can. Go across the fields, not by the roads!"

The men stole out of the house. Only Denis and Murnihan were left, and Mary Drennan, and the dead woman. Murnihan took Denis by the arm and dragged him towards the door. Denis shook him off. He turned to where Mary kneeled on the ground. He tore the mask from his face and flung it down.

"Oh, Mary, Mary!" he said. "I never meant it!"

The girl looked up. For an instant her eyes met his. Then she bent forward again across her mother's body. Murnihan grasped Denis again.

"You damned fool!" he said. "Do you want to hang for it? Do you want us all to hang for this night's work?"

He dragged him from the house. With his arm round the waist of the shuddering man he pulled him along and field to field until they reached a by-road which led into the town.

Three days later Inspector Chalmers, of the Royal Irish Constabulary, and Major Whiteley, the magistrate, sat together in the office of the police barrack stations.

"I've got the men who did it," said Chalmers. "I've got the whole eight of them, and I can lay my hands on all the rest of their cursed club any minute I like."

"Have you any evidence?" asked Whiteley. "Any evidence on which to convict?"

"I've no evidence worth speaking of," said Chalmers, "unless the girl can identify them. But I know I've got the right men."

"The girl won't know them," said Whiteley. "They're sure to have worn masks. And even if she did recognise one of them she'd be afraid to speak. In the state this country's in everyone is afraid to speak."

"The girl won't be afraid," said Chalmers. "I know her father, and I knew her mother that's dead, and I know the girl. There never was a Drennan yet that was afraid to speak, I've sent the sergeant to fetch her. She ought to be here in a few minutes, and then you'll see if she's afraid."

Ten minutes later Mary Drennan was shown into the room by the police-sergeant. The two men who were waiting for her received her kindly.

"Sit down, Miss Drennan!" said Major Whiteley. "I'm very sorry to trouble you, and I'm very sorry to have to ask you to speak about a matter which must be painful to you. But I want you to tell me, as well as you can recollect, exactly what happened on the night your mother was murdered."

Mary Drennan, white faced and wretched, told her story as she had told it before to the police-officer. She said that her father was absent from home, taking bullocks to the fair, that she and her mother sat up late, that they went to bed together about eleven o'clock. She spoke in emotionless, even tones, even when she told how six men had burst into the kitchen.

"Could you recognise any of them?" said Major Whiteley.

"I could not. They wore masks, and had hay tied over their clothes."

She told about her mother's defiance, about the scuffle, about the firing of the shot. Then she stopped short. Of what happened afterwards she had said nothing to the police-officer, but Major Whiteley questioned her.

"Did any of the men speak? Did you know their voices?"

"One spoke," she said, "but I did not know the voice."

"Did you get any chance of seeing their faces, or any of their faces?"

"The man who fired the shot took off his mask before he left the room, and I saw his face."

"Ah!" said Major Whiteley. "And would you recognise him if you saw him again?"

He leaned forward eagerly as he asked the question. All depended on her answer.

"Yes," said Mary. "I should know him if I saw him again."

Major Whiteley leaned across to Mr. Chalmers, who sat beside him.

"If you've got the right man," he whispered, "we'll hang him on the girl's evidence."

"I've got the right man, sure enough," said Chalmers.

"Miss Drennan," said Major Whiteley, "I shall have eight men brought into this room one after another, and I shall ask you to identify the man who fired a shot at your mother, the man who removed his mask before he left the room."

He rang the bell which stood on the table.

The sergeant opened the door, and stood at attention. Mr. Chalmers gave his orders.

"Bring the prisoners into the room one by one," he said, "and stand each man there"—he pointed to a place opposite the window—"so that the light will fall full on his face."

Inspector Chalmers had not boasted foolishly when he said that he had taken the right men. Acting on such knowledge as the police possess in every country, he had arrested the leading members of the Sinn Fein Club. Of two of them he was surer than he was of any of the others. Murnihan was secretary of the club, and the most influential member of it, Denis Ryan had gone about the town looking like a man stricken with a deadly disease ever since the night of the murder. The lawyer who employed him as a clerk complained that he seemed totally incapable of doing his work. The police felt sure that either he or Murnihan fired the shot; that both of them, and probably a dozen men besides, knew who did.

Six men were led into the office one after another. Mary Drennan looked at each of them and shook her head. It came to Murnihan's turn. He marched in defiantly, staring insolently at the police-officer and at the magistrate.

He displayed no emotion when he saw Mary Drennan. She looked at him, and once more shook her head.

"Are you sure?" said Chalmers. "Quite sure?"

"I am sure," she said. "He is not the man I saw."

"Remove him," said Chalmers.

Murnihan stood erect for a moment before he turned to follow the sergeant. With hand raised to the salute he made profession of the faith that was in him:

"Up the rebels!" he said. "Up Sinn Fein! God save Ireland!"

Denis Ryan was led in and set in the appointed place. He stood there trembling. His face was deadly pale. The fingers of his hands twitched. His head was bowed. Only once did he raise his eyes and let them rest for a moment on Mary's face. It was as if he was trying to convey some message to her, to make her understand something which he dared not say.

She looked at him steadily. Her face had been white before. Now colour, like a blush, covered her cheeks. Chalmers leaned forward eagerly, waiting for her to speak or give some sign. Major Whiteley tapped his fingers nervously on the table before him.

"That is not the man," said Mary Drennan.

"Look again," said Chalmers. "Make no mistake."

She turned to him and spoke calmly, quietly:

"I am quite certain. That is not the man."

"Damn!" said Chalmers. "The girl has failed us, after all. Take him away, sergeant!"

Denis Ryan had covered his face with his hands when Mary spoke. He turned to follow the sergeant from the room, a man bent and beaten down with utter shame.

"Stop!" said Chalmers. He turned fiercely to Mary. "Will you swear—will you take your oath he is not the man?"

"I swear it," said Mary.

"You're swearing to a lie," said Chalmers, "and you know it."

Major Whiteley was cooler and more courteous.

"Thank you, Miss Drennan," he said. "We need not trouble you any further."

Mary Drennan rose, bowed to the two men, and left the room.

"You may let those men go, Chalmers," said Major Whiteley quietly. "There's no evidence against them, and you can't convict them."

"I must let them go," said Chalmers. "But they're the men who were there, and the last of them, Denis Ryan, fired the shot."

Mary Drennan never met her lover again, but she wrote to him once before he left the country.

"You see how I loved you, Denis. I gave you your life. I bought it for you, and my soul was the price I paid for it when I swore to a lie and was false to my mother's memory. I loved you that much, Denis, but I shall never speak to you again."



PART TWO



IX. A BIRD IN HAND

Konrad Earl II. lost his crown and became a king in exile when Megalia became a republic. He was the victim of an ordinary revolution which took place in 1918, and was, therefore, in no way connected with the great war. Konrad Karl was anxious that this fact should be widely known. He did not wish to be mistaken for a member of the group of royalties who came to grief through backing the Germanic powers.

Like many other dethroned kings he made his home in England. He liked London life and prided himself on his mastery of the English language, which he spoke fluently, using slang and colloquial phrases whenever he could drag them in. He was an amiable and friendly young man, very generous when he had any money and entirely free from that pride and exclusiveness which is the fault of many European kings. He would have been a popular member of English society if it had not been for his connection with Madame Corinne Ypsilante, a lady of great beauty but little reputation. The king, who was sincerely attached to her, could never be induced to see that a lady of that kind must be kept in the background. Indeed it would not have been easy to conceal Madame Ypsilante. She was a lady who showed up wherever she went, and she went everywhere with the king. English society could neither ignore nor tolerate her. So English society, a little regretfully, dropped King Konrad Karl.

He did not much regret the loss of social position. He and Madame lived very comfortably in a suite of rooms at Beaufort's, which, as everyone knows, is the most luxurious and most expensive hotel in London. Their most intimate friend was Mr. Michael Gorman, M.P. for Upper Offaly. He was a broad-minded man with no prejudice against ladies like Madame Ypsilante. He had a knowledge of the by-ways of finance which made him very useful to the king; for Konrad Karl, though he lived in Beaufort's Hotel, was by no means a rich man. The Crown revenues of Megalia, never very large, were seized by the Republic at the time of the revolution, and the king had no private fortune. He succeeded in carrying off the Crown jewels when he left the country; but his departure was so hurried that he carried off nothing else. His tastes were expensive, and Madame Ypsilante was a lady of lavish habits. The Crown jewels of Megalia did not last long. It was absolutely necessary for the king to earn, or otherwise acquire, money from time to time, and Michael Gorman was as good as any man in London at getting money in irregular ways.

It was Gorman, for instance, who started the Near Eastern Wine Growers' Association. It prospered for a time because it was the only limited liability company which had a king on its Board of Directors. It failed in the end because the wine was so bad that nobody could drink it. It was Gorman who negotiated the sale of the Island of Salissa to a wealthy American. Madame Ypsilante got her famous pearl necklace out of the price of the island. It was partly because the necklace was very expensive that King Konrad Karl found himself short of money again within a year of the sale of the island. The moment was a particularly unfortunate one. Owing to the war it was impossible to start companies or sell islands.

Things came to a crisis when Emile, the Bond Street dressmaker, refused to supply Madame with an evening gown which she particularly wanted. It was a handsome garment, and Madame was ready to promise to pay L100 for it. Mr. Levinson, the business manager of Emile's, said that further credit was impossible, when Madame's bill already amounted to L680. His position was, perhaps, reasonable. It was certainly annoying. Madame, after a disagreeable interview with him, returned to Beaufort's Hotel in a very bad temper.

Gorman was sitting with the king when she stormed into the room. Hers was one of those simple untutored natures which make little attempt to conceal emotion. She flung her muff into a corner of the room. She tore the sable stole from her shoulders and sent it whirling towards the fireplace. Gorman was only just in time to save it from being burnt. She dragged a long pin from her hat and brandished it as if it had been a dagger.

"Konrad," she said, "I demand that at once the swine-dog be killed and cut into small bits by the knives of executioners."

There was a large china jar standing on the floor near the fireplace, one of those ornaments which give their tone of sumptuousness to the rooms in Beaufort's Hotel. Madame rushed at it and kicked it. When it broke she trampled on the pieces. She probably wished to show the size of the bits into which the business manager of Emile's ought to be minced.

Gorman sought a position of safety behind a large table. He had once before seen Madame deeply moved and he felt nervous. The king, who was accustomed to her ways, spoke soothingly.

"My beloved Corinne," he said, "who is he, this pig? Furnish me forthwith by return with an advice note of the name of the defendant."

The king's business and legal experience had taught him some useful phrases, which he liked to air when he could; but his real mastery of the English language was best displayed by his use of current slang.

"We shall at once," he went on, "put him up the wind, or is it down the wind? Tell me, Gorman. No. Do not tell me. I have it. We will put the wind up him."

"If possible," said Gorman.

Madame turned on him.

"Possible!" she said. "It is possible to kill a rat. Possible! Is not Konrad a king?"

"Even kings can't cut people up in that sort of way," said Gorman, "especially just now when the world is being made safe for democracy. Still if you tell us who the man is we'll do what we can to him."

"He is a toad, an ape, a cur-cat with mange, that manager of Emile," said Madame. "He said to me 'no, I make no evening gown for Madame.'"

"Wants to be paid, I suppose," said Gorman. "They sometimes do."

"Alas, Corinne," said the king, "and if I give him a cheque the bank will say 'Prefer it in a drawer.' They said it last time. Or perhaps it was 'Refer it to a drawer.' I do not remember. But that is what the bank will do. Gorman, my friend, it is as the English say all O.K. No, that is what it is not. It is U.P. Well. I have lived. I am a King. There is always poison. I can die. Corinne, farewell."

The king drew himself up to his full height, some five foot six, and looked determined.

"Don't talk rot," said Gorman. "You are not at the end of your tether yet."

The king maintained his heroic pose for a minute. Then he sat down on a deep chair and sank back among the cushions.

"Gorman," he said, "you are right. It is rot, what you call dry rot, to die. And there is more tether, perhaps. You say so, and I trust you, my friend. But where is it, the tether beyond the end?"

Madame, having relieved her feelings by breaking the china jar to bits, suddenly became gentle and pathetic. She flung herself on to the floor at Gorman's feet and clasped his knees.

"You are our friend," she said, "now and always. Oh Gorman, Sir Gorman, M.P., drag out more tether so that my Konrad does not die."

Gorman disliked emotional scenes very much. He persuaded Madame to sit on a chair instead of the floor. He handed her a cigarette. The king, who understood her thoroughly, sent for some liqueur brandy and filled a glass for her.

"Now," he said. "Trot up, cough out, tell on, Gorman. Where is the tether which has no end? How am I to raise the dollars, shekels, oof? You have a plan, Gorman. Make it work."

"My plan," said Gorman, "ought to work. I don't say it's a gold mine, but there's certainly money in it I came across a man yesterday called Bilkins, who's made a pile, a very nice six figure pile out of eggs—contracts, you know, war prices, food control and all the usual ramp."

"Alas," said the king, "I have no eggs, not one. I cannot ramp."

"I don't expect you to try," said Gorman. "As a matter of fact I don't think the thing could be done twice. Bilkins only just pulled it off. My idea——"

"I see it," said Madame. "We invite the excellent Bilkins to dinner. We are gay. He and we. There is a little game with cards. Konrad and I are more than a match for Bilkins. That is it, Gorman. It goes."

"That's not it in the least," said Gorman. "Bilkins isn't that kind of man at all. He's a rabid teetotaller for one thing, and he's extremely religious. He wouldn't play for anything bigger than a sixpence, and you'd spend a year taking a ten-pound note off him."

"Hell and the devil, Gorman," said the king, "if I have no eggs to ramp and if Bilkins will not play——"

"Wait a minute," said Gorman, "I told you that Bilkins' egg racket was a bit shady. He wasn't actually prosecuted; but his character wants white-washing badly, and the man knows it."

The king sighed heavily.

"Alas, Gorman," he said, "it would be of no use for us to wash Bilkins. Corinne and I, if we tried to washwhite, that is, I should say, to whitewash, the man afterwards would be only more black. We are not respectable, Corinne and I. It is no use for Bilkins to come to us."

"That's so," said Gorman. "I don't suppose a certificate from me would be much good either. Bilkins' own idea—he feels his position a good deal—is that if he could get a title—knighthood for instance—or even an O.B.E., it would set him up again; but they won't give him a thing. He has paid handsomely into the best advertised charities and showed me the receipts himself—and handed over L10,000 to the party funds, giving L5,000 to each party to make sure; and now he feels he's been swindled. They won't do it—can't, I suppose. The eggs were too fishy."

"I should not care," said the king, "if all the eggs were fishes. If I were a party and could get L5,000. But I am not a party, Gorman, I am a king."

"Exactly," said Gorman, "and it's kings who give those things, the things Bilkins wants. Isn't there a Megalian Order—Pink Vulture or something?"

"Gorman, you have hit it," said the king delightedly. "You have hit the eye of the bull, and the head of the nail. I can give an order, I can say 'Bilkins, you are Grand Knight of the Order of the Pink Vulture of Megalia, First Class.' Gorman, it is done. I give. Bilkins pays. The world admires the honourableness of the Right Honourable Sir Bilkins. His character is washed white. Ah, Corinne, my beloved, you shall spit in the face of the manager of Emile's. I said I cannot ramp. I have no eggs. I was wrong. The Vulture of Megalia lays an egg for Bilkins."

"You've got the idea," said Gorman. "But we can't rush the thing. Your Pink Vulture is all right, of course. I'm not saying anything against it. But most people in this country have never heard of it, and consequently it wouldn't be of much use to a man of Bilkin's position. The first thing we've got to do is to advertise the fowl; get it fluttering before the public eye. If you leave that part to me I'll manage it all right. I've been connected with the press far years."

Three days later it was announced in most of the London papers that the King of Megalia had bestowed the Order of the Pink Vulture on Sir Bland Potterton, His Majesty's Minister for Balkan Affairs, in recognition of his services to the Allied cause in the Near East. Sir Bland Potterton was in Roumania when the announcement appeared and he did not hear of his new honour for nearly three weeks. When he did hear of it he refused it curtly.

In the meanwhile the Order was bestowed on two Brigadier Generals and three Colonels, all on active service in remote parts of the world. Little pictures of the star and ribbon of the Order appeared in the back pages of illustrated papers, and there were short articles in the Sunday papers which gave a history of the Order, describing it as the most ancient in Europe, and quoting the names of eminent men who had won the ribbon of the Order in times past. The Duke of Wellington, Lord Nelson, William the Silent, Galileo, Christopher Columbus, and the historian Gibbon appeared on the list. The Order was next bestowed on an Admiral, who held a command in the South Pacific, and on M. Clemenceau.

After that Gorman dined with the King.

The dinner, as is always the case in Beaufort's Hotel, was excellent. The wine was good. Madame Ypsilante wore a dress which, as she explained, was more than three months old.