OUR CASUALTY AND OTHER STORIES

By G. A. Birmingham

1918

I ~~ OUR CASUALTY

There is not in the whole British Isles a more efficient military bodythan the Ballyhaine Veterans' Corps. The men look like soldiers whenthey have their grey uniforms on and their brassards on their sleeves. They talk like soldiers. They have the true military spirit. There isnot a man in the company under fifty years of age, but if the Germansattempt a landing on the Ballyhaine beach, by submarine or otherwise, they will be sorry for themselves afterwards--those of them who remainalive. 

Ballyhaine is a residential suburb, entirely built over with villas ofthe better kind. Each villa has its garden. In times of peace we discusssweet peas or winter spinach or chrysanthemums on our way into townin the morning, travelling, as most of us do, by the 9. 45 train, withseason tickets, first class. 

When our boys went off from us, as they all did early in the war, wefelt that it was time for us to do something too. There was not theleast difficulty about enrolling the men. We all joined the corps, evenpoor old Cotter, who must be close on seventy, and who retired frombusiness three years ago. He used to bore us all by talking about hisrheumatism, but when the Volunteer Corps was formed he dropped all that, and went about saying that he had never suffered from pain or ache inhis life, and could do twenty miles a day without feeling it We madeCotter a corporal. 

Our Commanding Officer is Haines, who plays the best hand at bridge ofany man in the club. He held a commission in a line regiment before hewent on the Stock Exchange. That was thirty-five years ago, and it isnot to be supposed that his knowledge of soldiering is up-to-date, buthe is the only one of us who has any knowledge of soldiering at all, sowe chose him. 

The women were a difficulty at first. They insisted on regarding us asa joke, and used to repeat the absurd witticism of the street boys. I heard Janet say "Methusaleers" one day. She denied it, but I amperfectly certain she did not say "Fusiliers, " My wife fussed about drysocks and wanted me to take my umbrella on a route march one wet Sunday. 

Every other member of the corps had similar experiences. It was Tompkinswho hit on a way of dealing satisfactorily with the women. Tompkins isour local doctor. He stays in Ballyhaine all day long when the restof us go up to town, so he naturally knows a good deal about women. Heenrolled them in a volunteer ambulance brigade, and after that theywere just as keen as any of us. We did the thing handsomely for them. Webought six stretchers, a small motor ambulance waggon, and some milesof bandages. Janet and Cotter's youngest girl carried one of thestretchers. I should not like to say that my wife actually hoped Ishould be wounded, but I think she would have liked the chance ofbandaging any other man in the corps. The rest of the women felt as shedid. 

The drawback to Ballyhaine as a centre of military activity is thedifficulty of finding a place for practising field manoeuvres. There isthe golf links, of course, but we got tired of marching round and roundthe golf links, and we did not want to dig trenches there. Haines, whodoes not play golf, drew up a plan of trench digging which would haveruined the golf links for years. But we would not have that. Nor couldwe dig in each other's gardens, or practise advancing over open countryin skirmishing order when there was no open country. The whole districtis a network of high walls with broken glass on top of them, a form ofdefence rendered necessary by the attacks of small boys on our fruittrees. 

Fortunately, we had the sea beach. The strand--there are three miles ofit--is one of the glories of Ballyhaine. We did most of our manoeuvringthere and dug our trenches there. Haines was opposed to this plan atfirst. 

"If the Germans come at all, " said Cotter, "they'll come from the sea. They must, this being an island. "

"Of course, " said Haines. 

"Then, " said Cotter, "the beach is the place where we shall have to meetthem, and the strand is where our trenches ought to be. "

There was no answering that argument. Even Haines gave way. 

"With barbed wire entanglements, " said Cotter, "down to the water'sedge. "

The weather round about Christmas-time was extraordinarily severe inBallyhaine. We came in for a series of gales, accompanied by drivingrain, and the days at that time of year are so short that most of oursoldiering had to be done in the dark. 

I got one cold after another, and so did every other member of thecorps. Poor old Cotter limped pitifully on parade, but he did not say aword about rheumatism. The spirit of the men was splendid, and notone of us showed a sign of shirking, though Haines kept us at it withferocity. 

Haines varied the digging by making us practise a horrible manoeuvrecalled "relieving trenches. " This was always done in the middle ofthe night, between twelve and one o'clock. Part of the corps went outearly--about 10. 30 p. M. --and manned the trenches. The rest of us marchedforth at midnight and relieved them. 

The worst evening we had all winter was December 8th. It was blowingterrifically from the south-east The sea was tumbling in on the beachin enormous waves, fringing the whole line of the shore with a broadstretch of white foam. The rain swept over the country pitilessly. Icame out of town by the 5. 10 train, and called at the club on my wayhome. I found a notice posted up:

"Ballyhaine Veterans' Corps. 

"Tonight, December the 8th, trenches will be relieved at 12 midnightNo. 1 and No. 2 Platoons to parade at 10. 30, march to north end of thestrand, and occupy trenches. "

That meant a six-mile march for those platoons--three there and threeback. 

"No. 3 and No. 4 Platoons to parade at 11 p. M. , march to cliffs, descendrocks, and relieve trenches as soon as possible after midnight. "

I am in No. 3 Platoon, and I confess I shuddered. The rocks at thenorth end of the beach are abominably slippery. A year ago I should havehesitated about climbing down in broad daylight in the finest weather. My military training had done a good deal for me physically, but I stillshrank from those rocks at midnight with a tempest howling round me. 

When I reached home I put a good face on the matter. I was not going toadmit to my wife or Janet--particularly to Janet--that I was afraid ofnight operations in any weather. 

"Please have my uniform left out for me, " I said, "I shall put it onbefore dinner. "

"Surely, " said my wife, "you're not going out to-night? I don't thinkyou ought to. "

"Duty, my dear, " I said. 

"Just fancy, " said Janet, "if the Germans came and father wasn't there!We might be murdered in our beds!"

I am sometimes not quite sure whether Janet means to scoff or is inserious earnest On this occasion I was inclined to think that she waspoking fun at the Veterans' Corps. I frowned at her. 

"You'll get dreadfully wet, " said my wife. 

"Not the least harm in that, " I said cheerily. 

"It'll give you another cold in your head, " said Janet

This time she was certainly sneering. I frowned again. 

"Of course, " said my wife, "it won't matter to you. You're so strong andhealthy. Nothing does you any harm. "

I suspected her of attempting a subtle form of flattery, but what shesaid was quite true. I am, for a man of fifty-three, extremely hardy. 

"I'm thinking, " she said, "of poor old Mr. Cotter. I don't think heought to go. Mrs. Cotter was round here this afternoon. She says he'ssuffering dreadfully from rheumatism, though he won't admit it, and ifhe goes out to-night. .. But he's so determined, poor old dear. And shesimply can't stop him. "

"Cotter, " I said, "must stay at home. "

"But he won't, " said my wife. 

"Military ardour is very strong in him, " said Janet. 

"I'll ring up Dr. Tompkins, " I said, "and tell him to forbid Cotter togo out Tompkins is Medical Officer of the corps, and has a right to giveorders of the kind. In fact, it's his duty to see that the company's notweakened by ill-health. "

"I'm afraid, " said my wife, "that Dr. Tompkins can do nothing. Mrs. Cotter was with him before she came here. The fact is that Mr. Cotterwon't give in even to the doctor's orders. "

I rang up Tompkins and put the case very strongly to him. 

"It will simply kill Cotter, " I said, "and we can't have that. He maynot be of any very great military value, but he's a nice old boy, and wedon't want to lose him. "

Tompkins agreed with me thoroughly. He said he'd been thinking thematter over since Mrs. Cotter called on him in the afternoon, and hadhit upon a plan which would meet the case. 

"If only the C. O. Will fall in with it, " he added. 

Haines is in some ways a difficult man. He likes to manage things hisown way, and resents any suggestions made to him, particularly by men inthe ranks. However, Cotter's life was at stake, so I undertook to tackleHaines, even at the risk of being snubbed. Tompkins explained his planto me. I rang up Haines, and laid it before him. I put the matter verystrongly to him. I even said that the War Office would probably deprivehim of his command if it was discovered that he had been wasting thelives of his men unnecessarily. 

"The country needs us all, " I said, "even Cotter. After all, Cotter is anon-commissioned officer and a most valuable man. Besides, it'll do theAmbulance Brigade a lot of good. "

It was this last consideration which weighed most with Haines. He hadfelt for some time that our ambulance ladies were coming to have toogood an opinion of themselves. I had the satisfaction of going back tothe drawing-room and telling Janet that the stretcher bearers were toparade at eleven o'clock, and march in the rear of the column--Numbers 3and 4 Platoons--which went to relieve trenches. 

"Rot, " said Janet "We can't possibly go out on a night like this. "

"C. O. 's orders, " I said. 

"The stretchers will be utterly ruined, " she said, "not to mention ourhats. "

"C. O. 's orders, " I said severely. 

"If we must go, " said Janet, "we'll take the ambulance waggon. 

"No, you won't, " I said. "You'll take your stretchers and carry them. Yours not to reason why, Janet And in any case you can't take theambulance waggon, because we're marching along the beach, and you knowperfectly well that the strand is simply scored with trenches. We can'thave the ambulance waggon smashed up. It's the only one we have. If afew girls break their legs it doesn't much matter. There are too manygirls about the place. "

Platoons Numbers 1 and 2 marched off at 10. 30 p. M. In a blindingdownpour of rain. We watched them go from the porch of the golfpavilion, and promised to relieve them as quickly as we could. Weparaded, according to orders, at 11 sharp, and I was glad to see thatJanet and the other girls were wet and draggled long before we started. 

Haines made us a short speech. He had to shout at the top of his voicebecause the storm was making a dreadful noise. But we heard what hesaid. The business of relieving trenches, he told us, would be carriedout under strictly war conditions, precisely as if enemy submarineswere shelling us from the sea. There would necessarily, supposing thesubmarines to be actually there, be casualties in our force. Haines toldoff four men to act as casualties. The first on the list--this was theway Tompkins' plan worked out--was Corporal Cotter. 

"Corporal Cotter, " said Haines, "will drop out of the ranks as thecolumn passes the third bathing-box, numbering from the south end of thebeach, Mrs. Tompkins' bathing-box, which is painted bright green. "

Haines was, very properly, most particular about defining thebathing-box exactly. 

"Corporal Cotter and the other casualties, " said Haines, "will takewaterproof ground-sheets with them--two waterproof ground-sheetseach--and keep as dry as possible. The stretcher bearers will followthe column at a distance of two hundred paces to pick up the casualties, affording first-aid on the spot, and, on reaching the field hospital, will apply restoratives under the directions of the Company's MedicalOfficer. For the purposes of these manouvres. Corporal Cotter's housewill be regarded as the Field Hospital. "

The other three casualties, all elderly and rather delicate men, wereordered to drop out of the ranks at places further along the beach. If it was Janet's luck to reach the furthest casualty she would walk, carrying a stretcher, about a mile and a half altogether. When she gothome she would be less inclined to sneer at people who catch cold in theservice of their country. 

The night was extremely dark. I do not think I have ever experienced adarker night. We could hear the sea roaring on our left, and could see, when we looked back, a dim glow here and there from the windows of ourhouses; but it was quite impossible to see anything on the beach. 

I missed Cotter when we had been stumbling along for about a quarter ofan hour, and felt glad that he had done his share. In a minute or so, Ihoped, he would be safe on a stretcher, and half an hour later wouldbe drinking whisky and water, hot That, so Tompkins told me, was therestorative which was to be administered to all the casualties. 

We got through the business of relieving the trenches in the end, thoughwe had a tough struggle. The great difficulty was to find them. IfPlatoons Numbers 1 and 2 could have shouted to us or flashed theirelectric torches we should have got them much sooner than we did. Butnoise and light were strictly forbidden. They would, so Haines said, attract the enemy's fire, and result in our being wiped out by shrapnel. 

I got separated at one time from the rest of my platoon, and walked intothe sea twice. Afterwards I fell over the Company Sergeant-Major, whowas sitting in a pool beside a rock. He said he had sprained his ankle. But that turned out not to be true. He had only twisted it a little, andwas able to limp home. In civil life our Company Sergeant-Major is oneof the directors of the Corporate Banking Company Ltd. , and drives intotown in his own motor. 

Then I came on Haines, wandering by himself on a sandhill. He wasswearing viciously. It was, indeed, the sound of his oaths which ledme to him. They were not loud, but they were uttered with an intensitywhich gave them the power of piercing through the tumult of the storm. He and I and the Company Sergeant-Major stuck together, and at1 a. M. --we took the time from Haines' luminous-faced wrist watch--wesuddenly tumbled into the trench. 

We found the whole four platoons waiting for us; but they would nothave waited much longer. The senior Second Lieutenant--a very well-knownsolicitor--had taken command of the company, assuming, as he said, thatHaines had become a casualty accidentally. His idea was to march themen home, and then send the Ambulance Brigade to search for Haines, theCompany Sergeant-Major, and me. 

"That's the sort of thing, " he said, "an ambulance is for. The men inthe fighting line can't be expected to do it. "

We marched home in pretty good order, considering that we were all verywet, greatly exhausted, and many of us bruised in various parts ofour bodies. Our spirit was quite unbroken, and Haines, writing up theofficial diary afterwards, said that our moral was excellent. He did usno more than bare justice. There was not a man among us--except perhapsthe Company Sergeant-Major, whose ankle was swelling up--who would nothave welcomed a German attack. 

We got back to the golf pavilion, and found the whole place in anuproar. Women, all of them very wet, were rushing about. Tompkinswas giving confused and contradictory orders to the twelve stretcherbearers, who looked cowed and miserable. Mrs. Cotter was sitting on thefloor in a corner of the room crying bitterly. We got the explanationout of Tompkins at last. 

Three of the casualties had, it appeared, been successfully pickedup and carried home. The stretcher bearers had somehow missed Cotter. Search parties had been sent out Tompkins himself had felt his way roundeach of the fifteen bathing-boxes. The nursing section of the AmbulanceBrigade had waved electric torches and stable lanterns up and down thebeach from the edge of the sea to the sandhills. The stretcher bearers, scourged by the remarks Tompkins made about their incompetence, had goneshouting through the storm until they were hoarse and utterly exhausted. Nothing had been seen or heard of Cotter. 

Haines took charge of the situation at once. He formed up the fourplatoons, and marched us all back to the beach. There we assumed openorder, and skirmished in a northerly direction. We were told to keepin touch with each other, and to leave no square yard of the sandunexamined. We were to go on skirmishing until we found Cotter, dead oralive. My own idea was that if we found anything it would be his corpse. 

I did my best to obey orders, but I almost immediately lost touch witheverybody else. The other men, so I learnt afterwards, had the sameexperience. However, I had the good luck to find Cotter. He came towardsme, indeed he ran into me before I saw him. He was in charge of apoliceman, who held him firmly but kindly by the arm. The moment Cottersaw me he burst out:

"Tell this infernal fool that I'm not drunk, " he said. 

"If you're acquainted with the gentleman, " said the policeman, "it wouldbe well for you to take him home to his bed. He's not in a fit state tobe out by himself. "

I drove off the policeman with some difficulty, making myself personallyresponsible for Cotter's safety. Then I questioned the old gentleman. 

"What have you been doing?" I said. 

"Waiting for the ambulance. I'd be waiting still if that ass of apoliceman hadn't insisted that I was drunk and dragged me away. "

"Good Lord!" I said, "and they've been looking for you for hours. "

"I know that, " said Cotter. "I saw their lights all over the place andheard them shouting. "

"Then why on earth didn't you shout back and let them know where youwere?"

"Casualties don't shout, " said Cotter. "They can't They're too weak. Igroaned occasionally; but I suppose they didn't hear me. "

"And how long did you mean to lie out in this storm?" I said. 

"Till the stretcher bearers found me, " said Cotter. "Those were theC. O. 's orders. "

I do not know whether any medals will be given to volunteers after thewar. Cotter certainly deserves one. I have never heard a finer storyof devotion to duty than his. When I had got rid of the policeman heactually wanted to go back and lie down again. 

II ~~ GETTING EVEN

The battalion awaited its orders to embark for France. A feeling ofexpectation, a certain nervousness, a half-pleasurable excitement, prevailed in the officers' mess and among the men. No one thoughtof service in France as a picnic, or anticipated a good time in thetrenches. But there was a general sense of relief that the period oftraining--a long, tiresome, very dull business--was over at last over oralmost over. For the Colonel and certain remote authorities behind theColonel believed in working the battalion hard up to the last moment. Therefore day after day there were "stunts" and "shows, " fieldexercises of every conceivable kind. The weather was hot, as hot asweather ought to be in the first week of August Long marches becamedusty horrors to the men. Manouvres meant hours of desperate toil. Officers thought longingly of bygone summers, of the cool shade oftrees, of tennis played in white flannels, of luscious plates ofstrawberries and cream. The Colonel, an old soldier, went on inventingnew "stunts" and more of them. He had laboured at the training of hisbattalion, hammering raw boys into disciplined men, inspiring subalternswith something of his own spirit. 

On the whole he had been successful. The men sweated, but grumbled verylittle. The officers kept up a gallant pretence at keenness. Slacknesswas regarded as bad form, and only one member of the mess made no secretof his opinion that the Colonel was overdoing the "spit and polish"business. This was McMahon, the medical officer; and he did not, properly speaking, belong to the battalion at all. Men and officersalike were drawn for the most part from the English midlands. McMahonwas an Irishman. They were born with a sense of discipline and theColonel worked on material responsive to his methods. McMahon, likemost Irishmen, was by temperament a rebel. Yet there was no more popularofficer than the Irish doctor. His frank good humour, his ready wit, hisunfailing kindliness, won him affection. Even the Colonel liked him, andbore from McMahon behaviour which would have led to the sharp snubbingof anyone else. 

There came a day--the 6th of August--for which the Colonel, or somehigher authority, devised a "stunt" of the most intense and laboriouskind. A very great and remote man, the General in command of the wholedistrict, promised to be present and to witness the performance. Orderswere issued in minute detail, and every officer was expected to befamiliar with them. Maps were studied conscientiously. Field glasseswere polished. Rations were served out Kits were inspected. The affairwas an attack upon a hill supposed to be strongly held by an enemy wellprovided with machine-guns. 

A genuine excitement possessed the battalion. This, so it was felt, wasvery like the real thing. Just so, some day in France, would anadvance be made and great glory won. McMahon alone remained cheerfullyindifferent to the energetic fussiness which prevailed. 

The day dawned cloudless with promise of intense heat. Very early, aftera hurried and insufficient breakfast, B Company marched out It was thebusiness of B Company to take up a position south of the enemy's hill, to harass the foe with flanking fire and at the proper moment to rushcertain machine-gun posts. B Company had some ten miles to march beforereaching its appointed place. McMahon gave it as his opinion that BCompany would be incapable of rushing anything when it had marchedten miles in blistering heat and had lain flat for an hour or two in ashadeless field. A party of cooks, with a travelling kitchen, followedB Company. McMahon said that if the cooks were sensible men they wouldlose their way and come to a halt in a wood, not far from a stream. Headded that he was himself very sensible and had already fixed on thewood, about a mile from the scene of the attack, where he intended tospend the day, with a novel. 

The other three companies, the Lewis gunners, and a battery of Stokesgun men, attached to the battalion for the attack, marched out later, under the command of the Colonel himself. Cyclist scouts scoured theroads ahead of the advance. McMahon, accompanied by an orderly, marchedin the rear and complained greatly of the dust. A Brigadier appeared ina motor and cast a critical eye on the men. Two officers in staff caps, understood to be umpires, rode by. 

At noon, the heat being then very great, a motor cyclist dashed up, hismachine snorting horribly, the man himself plastered with dust, sweatand oil. He announced that the battalion was under heavy fire from theenemy artillery and that men were falling fast The Brigadier had sentan urgent message to that effect. The Colonel, who rather expected thatsomething of the sort would occur, gave the orders necessary in such asituation. The men opened out into artillery formation and advanced, bya series of short rushes, to take cover in some trenches, supposed tohave been abandoned, very conveniently, by the enemy the day before. The Brigadier, seated in his motor-car in a wood on a neighbouring hill, watched the operation through his field glasses, munched a sandwich, andenjoyed a glass of sherry from his flask. McMahon, for whom short rushesin artillery formation had no attractions at all, slipped througha hedge, skirted a field of ripening oats, and settled himself verycomfortably under a beech tree on the edge of a small wood. His orderlyfollowed him and laid down a large package on the grass beside thedoctor. The Colonel, an enthusiastic realist, had insisted that McMahonshould bring with him a supply of surgical instruments, dressings andother things necessary for dealing with wounds. McMahon opened thepackage. He took out a novel, a tin of tobacco, a great many packages ofcigarettes, two bottles of soda water, two lemons and several parcels offood. 

"This, " he said to the orderly, "is the advanced dressing station. Whenthe casualties begin to arrive, we shall be ready for them. "

The Brigadier sent another motor cyclist to say that the battalion wouldbe wiped out if it stayed where it was. He suggested a move to the rightand an attempt to get into touch with B Company. 

The Brigadier, though he drove in a motor-car, was feeling the heat. Ifa direct advance had been made on the hill from where the battalion layhe would have been obliged to drive out of his wood in order to keep thebattle in view. A move to the right could be watched comfortably fromwhere he sat The Colonel explained the situation, not the Brigadier'sfeelings, to his officers, exposing himself with reckless gallantry ashe passed from company to company. He said that he himself would surveythe ground to the right and would try to discover the exact position ofB Company. 

"I shall, " he said to the Adjutant, "climb a tree so as to get a goodview. "

The Adjutant remonstrated. He thought the Colonel was too old a man forclimbing trees. He recommended that a subaltern, a Second Lieutenantwhom nobody would miss much if he fell, should be sent up the tree. Thesuggestion, as the Adjutant might have guessed, made the Colonel moredetermined and slightly exasperated him. 

He gave orders that the Stokes gunners should shell the enemy while heclimbed the tree. The Stokes gunners did not want to shell anyone. Theirweapons are awkward to handle and their ammunition very heavy. They werealready as hot as any men ought to be. But they were well trained andhighly disciplined. They attacked the enemy with small dummy shells, which rose gently into the air, made a half-circle, and fell aboutfifteen yards from the muzzles of their guns. 

The Colonel, looking about him for a tree not too difficult to climb, caught sight of the beech under which McMahon lay. It seemed exactly thekind of tree he required. It was high. Its lower branches were closeto the ground. It looked strong and sound. The Colonel pushed his waythrough the hedge, avoided the oats, and approached the tree across apasture field. He came on McMahon stretched flat on his back, a tumblerfull of lemon squash beside him and his novel in his hand. The Colonelwas still irritated by the Adjutant's suggestion that he was too oldto climb trees. He was also beginning, now that he was near a tree, to wonder uneasily whether the Adjutant had not been right He saw anopportunity of expressing his feelings at the expense of McMahon. 

"What are you doing here?" he asked. 

McMahon, who had not seen the Colonel approach, stood up hurriedly, upsetting his lemon squash, and saluting. 

"What the deuce are you doing here?" said the Colonel. "You've nobusiness to be idling, drinking and smoking under a tree, when thebattalion is in action. "

"This is an advanced dressing station, sir, " said McMahon. "I'm waitingfor the casualties. 

"That's not your duty, " said the Colonel. "Your duty is to be with themen, in the firing line, ready to render first aid when required. "

"Beg pardon, sir, " said McMahon, "but I don't think that you're quiteright in saying----"

"Do you mean to tell me, " said the Colonel, "that it isn't the duty of amedical officer to accompany the men into the firing line?"

McMahon saluted again. 

"According to the instructions issued by the R. A. M. C. , sir, " he said, "my place is in the advanced dressing station when there's only onemedical officer attached to the unit in action. If there is more thanone the position is, of course, quite different. "

The Colonel, though a soldier of long experience, was not at all surewhat instructions the R. A. M. C. Authorities might have issued to theirofficers. And doctors are a powerful faction, given to standing togetherand defying anyone who attempts to interfere with them. Besides, no one, not even the strongest and healthiest of us, knows how soon he may findhimself under the power of a doctor, seized with a pain or other form ofdiscomfort which only a doctor can alleviate. It is never wise to pushthings to a quarrel with any member of the R. A. M. C. 

The Colonel turned away and, somewhat laboriously, climbed his tree. He was anxious, if possible, to make McMahon do a little work. It wasannoying to think that this young man, horribly addicted to slacking, should be lying on his back in the shade. Yet he did not at once see hisway to any plan for making McMahon run about in the heat. 

It was while he scanned the position of B Company through his fieldglasses that an idea suddenly occurred to him. He climbed down rapidlyand found McMahon standing respectfully to attention at the foot of thetree. 

"You told me, I think, " said the Colonel, "that this is the advanceddressing station?"

"Yes, sir. "

"And that you're prepared to deal with casualties?"

"Yes, sir. "

"I shall send some casualties down to you, " said the Colonel. 

"Yes, sir, certainly. "

"I shall expect, " said the Colonel, "that each man shall be properlytreated, exactly as if he were really wounded, bandaged up, you know, ready for the ambulance to take him to the casualty clearing station. And a proper record must be kept for each case. You must have a listmade out for me, properly classified, with a note of the treatmentadopted in each case and the nature of the injury, just as if youwere going to send it to the medical officer at the casualty clearingstation. "

"Yes, sir. "

"And it must be done properly, " said the Colonel. "No shirking. No shortcuts. I don't see why you shouldn't practise your job like the rest ofus. "

He turned away with a smile, a grim but well-satisfied smile. He intendedto keep McMahon busy, very busy indeed, for the rest of the day. 

McMahon lay down again after the Colonel left him. But he did notattempt to read his novel. He saw through the Colonel's plan. Hewas determined to defeat it if he could. He was enjoying a peacefulafternoon, and had no intention of exhausting himself bandaging upmen who had nothing the matter with them or compiling long lists ofimaginary injuries. After five minutes' thought he hit upon a scheme. Ten minutes later the first casualty arrived. 

"Sent to the rear by the Colonel, sir, " said the man. "Orders are toreport to you. Shrapnel wound in the left thigh, sir. "

"Left thigh?" said McMahon. 

"It was the left the Colonel said, sir. "

"All right, " said McMahon. "Orderly!"

The orderly, who had found a comfortable couch among some bracken, roused himself and stood to attention in front of McMahon. 

"Take this man round to the far side of the tree, " said McMahon, "andlet him lie down there flat on his back. You can give him a cigarette, He is to stay there until he gets orders to leave. "

The orderly saluted. The man grinned. He was quite ready to lie underthe tree without attempting to move until someone ordered him to get up. 

In the course of the next ten minutes six more casualties arrived. Theirinjuries were of several different kinds. One man reported that histhumb had been taken off by a machine-gun bullet Another said he had ascalp wound A third had lost a whole leg, severed at the thigh. A fourthhad a fragment of shell in his stomach. A fifth was completely blinded. A sixth was suffering from gas poisoning. McMahon's treatment nevervaried. Each man was given a cigarette and led off by the orderly to liedown in the shade at the far side of the tree. McMahon kept quite cool, refreshed himself occasionally with a drink of lemon squash, and smokedhis pipe. He began to admire the activity of the Colonel's imagination. For two hours casualties poured in and every one had a different kind ofwound. There was scarcely any part of the human body with which McMahonwas not called upon to deal And the Colonel never once repeated himself. Before four o'clock about a third of the battalion and half of theofficers were lying, very well content, in the shade under McMahon'scare. Many of them were sound asleep. 

The orderly was a man with a sense of military propriety. He insisted onthe casualties lying in straight rows, as neatly aligned as if they wereon their feet at parade in the barrack square. At last the stream ofwounded grew slacker and finally ceased to flow. Between half-pastfour and five o'clock not a single man came to report himself wounded. McMahon, lighting a fresh pipe, congratulated himself. Either theColonel's knowledge of anatomy was exhausted and he was unable to thinkof any more wounds, or the battle was over, and there was no furtherexcuse for inventing casualties. McMahon got up and stretched himself. He handed his novel, the two empty soda-water bottles, and his tobaccotin to the orderly, and bade him pack them up. 

"No cigarettes left, I suppose?" he said. 

"No, sir, not one. In fact, sir, the last twenty men didn't get any. Weren't enough to go round them all, sir. "

"Ah, " said McMahon, "it's been an expensive afternoon for me; but Idon't grudge it Those poor fellows wanted a smoke and a rest badly. Besides, I've had a very pleasant time, pleasant and peaceful. "

He strolled round to the far side of the tree and took a look at the menwho lay stretched out. One of the officers, a boy of untiring energy, complained that he was bored. 

"I say, McMahon, can't I get up and go back to the mess? What's the goodof my lying here all the afternoon?"

"You'll lie there, " said McMahon severely, "until you get orders to go. And it may be a long time before you do. In fact, you won't be able to. Stir till the padre comes, and I haven't the least idea where he is, Idoubt if he's out with us at all to-day. "

"What the dickens has the padre got to do with it?" said the officer. 

"You'll find that out in time. For the present you've nothing to do butlie still. "

"But hang it all---- I say, McMahon, can't you finish off and let mego?"

"I?" said McMahon. "I've finished with you long ago. There's nothingmore for me to do. The next man to take you in hand is the padre. "

The orderly stood at his elbow while he spoke. He seemed a littlenervous and agitated. 

"Beg pardon, sir, " he said. "The Colonel's just coming, sir. He and theGeneral. He's drove up in the General's car; and I'm afraid they're bothcoming here, sir. "

McMahon turned. What the orderly said was perfectly true. The Colonel, and with him the General, and the two umpires in the fight, wereskirting the oats and making for the little grove of trees where thecasualties were. 

McMahon went to meet them. 

"Ah, McMahon, " said the Colonel, "I've come to see how you've treatedthe wounded. I've brought the General with me. Casualties rather heavy, eh? Had a busy afternoon?"

The Colonel grinned. McMahon saluted respectfully. 

"Got your list made out?" said the Colonel, "and your report on eachcase? Just hand them over to me, will you? The General would like to seethem. "

"I beg your pardon, sir, " said McMahon, "but have you given orders forthe padre to report here?"

"Padre?" said the Colonel. "What do you want the padre for?"

"The padre and a burying party, sir, " said McMahon. "The fact is, sir, that the wounded all died, every one of them, on the way down from thefiring line. Arrived here stone dead. I couldn't do anything for them, sir. Dead before they got to me. I've had them laid out, if you'd liketo see them, sir. It's all I could do for the poor fellows. It's thepadre's job now. I understand that he keeps a register of burials, sothere was no need for me to make a list, and of course I didn't attemptany treatment. It wouldn't have been any use, sir, when the men weredead. "

III ~~ A MATTER OF DISCIPLINE

O'Byrne, the Reverend Timothy, is our padre. We call him Tim behind hisback because we like him and Padre to his face because some respect isdue to his profession. Mackintosh is our medical officer. The ReverendTim used to take a special delight in teasing Mackintosh. It may havebeen the natural antipathy, the cat and dog feeling, which existsbetween parsons and doctors. I do not know. 

But the padre never lost a chance of pulling the doctor's leg, andMackintosh spent hours proving that the things which the padre says hesaw could not possibly have happened I should not like to call any padrea liar; but some of the Rev. Tim's stories were rather tall, and thedoctor's scepticism always goaded him to fresh flights of imagination. 

The mess was a much livelier place after the Rev. Tim joined it. Beforehe attached himself to us we used to wonder why God made men likeMackintosh, and what use they are in the world. 

Now we know. Mackintosh exists to call out all that is best in ourpadre. 

One night--the battalion was back resting at the time--we had anAssistant Provost Marshal as a guest The conversation turned on thesubject of deserters, and our A. P. M. Told us some curious stories aboutthe attempts made by these poor devils to escape the net of the militaryorganization. 

"The fact is, " said the A. P. M. , "that a deserter hasn't a dog's chance, not here in France anyway. We are bound to get him every time. "

"Not every time, " said the padre. "I know one who has been at large formonths and you'll never lay hands on him. "

The A. P. M. , who did not of course know our padre, sat up and frowned. 

"I don't think it's his fault that he's a deserter, " said the padre. "Hewas forced into it And anyway, even if I give you his name and tell youexactly where he is, you'll not arrest him. "

"If he's a deserter, I will, " said the A. P. M. 

"No, you won't, " said the padre. "Excuse my contradicting you, but whenyou hear the story you'll see yourself that you can't arrest the man. Mackintosh here is protecting him. "

"Is it me?" said Mackintosh. "I'd like you to be careful what you'resaying. In my opinion it's libellous to say that I'm protecting adeserter. I'll have you court-martialled, Mr. O'Byrne, padre or nopadre. I'll have you court-martialled if you bring any such accusationagainst me. "

"I don't mean you personally, " said O'Byrne. "I am taking you as arepresentative of your profession. The man I am speaking of"--he turnedpolitely to the A. P. M. --"is under the direct protection of the ArmyMedical. You can't get at him. "

Mackintosh bristled, to the padre's great delight Anything in the way ofan attack on the medical profession excites Mackintosh fearfully. 

"Binny is the man's name, " said the padre. "17932, Private Alfred Binny. He was in the Wessex, before the hospital people made a deserter ofhim. I will give you his address if you like, but you'll not be able toarrest him. If you try you'll have every doctor in France down on you. They back each other up through anything, don't they, Mackintosh?"

"I'd like you to understand, " said Mackintosh, "that you can't be sayingthings like that with impunity. "

"Get on with the story, padre, " I said, "and don't exasperateMackintosh. "

"It was while I was attached to No. 97 General Hospital, " he said. "KnowNo. 97, Mackintosh? No. That's a pity. It's a place which would justsuit you. Patients wakened every morning at five to have their faceswashed. Discipline polished till you could see your face in it, and somany rules and regulations that you can't cross a room without trippingover one. The lists and card indexes that are kept going in that place, and the forms that are filled in! You'd glory in it, Mackintosh. But itdidn't suit my temperament. "

"I believe you, " said Mackintosh grimly. 

"It was while I was there, " said the padre, "that Biimy came down theline and was admitted to the hospital with a cushy wound in the fleshypart of his arm. He'd have been well in three weeks and back with hisbattalion in a month, if it hadn't been for the doctors. It's entirelyowing to them that he's a deserter now. "

"Malingered, I suppose, " said Mackintosh. "Got back to England byshamming shell shock and was given his discharge. He wouldn't havepulled it off if I'd been there. "

"You've guessed wrong, " said the padre. "It wasn't a case ofmalingering. As nearly as possible it was the exact opposite. Thedoctors tried to make the poor fellow out much worse than he really was. 

"I don't believe it, " said Mackintosh. 

"As a matter of fact, " said the padre, "the mistake--you'll hardly denythat it was a mistake when you hear the story--arose through too strictattention to discipline, that and the number of lists and returns thatwere made out. It doesn't do to rely too much on lists, and there issuch a thing as overdoing discipline. 

"What happened was this. One evening, when Binny had been in thehospital about a week, two orderlies came to his bed with a stretcher. They told him they were going to carry him down to the mortuary and puthim into his coffin. Binny, of course, thought they were making somenew kind of joke, and laughed. But the orderlies were perfectly serious. They said his name was on the list of those who had died during the dayand they had no choice except to obey orders and put him into a coffin. They showed Binny the list, all nicely typed out, and there was nomistake about it Binny's name, number, regiment, and religion were allthere. 

"Binny began to get indignant. He said he wasn't dead, that anyone couldsee he wasn't dead, and that it would be a barbarous thing to bury him. The orderlies, who were very nice fellows, admitted that Binny seemed tobe alive, but they stuck to it that it was their business to carry outtheir orders. Into the mortuary Binny would have to go. They triedto console him by saying that the funeral would not be till the nextmorning. But that did not cheer Binny much. In the end they took pity onthe poor fellow and said they would go away for an hour and come back. If Binny could get the order changed they'd be very pleased to leave himwhere he was. It wasn't, so they explained, any pleasure to them to putBinny into a coffin. 

"Binny did not get much chance during his hour's reprieve. The onlyperson who came into the ward was a V. A. D. Girl, quite a nice littlegirl, good-looking enough to be bullied a lot by the sister-in-charge. Binny told her about the fix he was in, and at first she thought hewas raving and tried to soothe him down. In the end, to pacify him, Isuppose, she went and asked the orderlies about him. She had not beenout in France long, that V. A. D. , and wasn't properly accustomed tothings. When she found out that what Binny had told her was true, shegot fearfully excited. She couldn't do anything herself, of course, butshe ran off to the matron as hard as she could. The matron was a bitstartled just at first, but she kept her head. 

"'Tell Private Binny, ' she said, 'that if he has any complaints to makethey must be made at the proper time and through the proper channels. The C. O. Goes round the hospital every morning between 10 a. M. And 11a. M. Private Binny can speak to him then. '

"'But by that time, ' said the V. A. D. Girl, 'the man will be buried. '

"'I can't help that, ' said the matron. ' The discipline of the hospitalmust be maintained. It would be perfectly impossible to run a place likethis if every man was allowed to make complaints at all hours of the dayand to all sorts of people. '

"That V. A. D. Was a plucky girl, and persistent--they sent her homeafterwards in disgrace--and she talked on until the matron agreed totake a look at Binny. I think she was staggered when she saw him sittingup in bed and heard him cursing the orderlies, who had come back bythat time. But she couldn't do anything. She wasn't really a bad sortof woman, and I don't suggest for a moment that she wanted to have Binnyburied alive. But she had no authority. She could not alter an order. And there the thing was in black and white. However, she persuaded theorderlies to wait another half-hour. She went off and found one of thesurgeons. He was a decent sort of fellow, but young, and he didn't seehis way to interfering. There had been several mistakes made in thathospital, and the C. O. Had been rather heavily strafed, which meantof course that everyone under him was strafed worse, on the good oldprinciple of passing it on. That surgeon's idea was to avoid trouble, if possible. Somebody, he said, had made a mistake, but it was too late, then, to set things right, and the best thing to do was to say nothingabout it. He was sorry for Binny, but he couldn't do anything. 

"When the V. A. D. Girl heard that, she lost her temper. She said she'dwrite home and tell her father about it, and that her father was aMember of Parliament and would raise hell about it She didn't, ofcourse, say hell!"

"She couldn't do that, " said Mackintosh. "The censor wouldn't pass aletter with a story like that in it. "

"Quite right, " said the padre, "and it wouldn't have been any good ifher father had got the letter. He couldn't have done anything. If he'dasked a question in Parliament he'd simply have been told a lie of somekind. It was a silly sort of threat to make. The V. A. D. Saw that herselfand began to cry. 

"That upset the surgeon so much that he went round and took a look atBinny. The man was pale by that time and in the deuce of a funk. But hewasn't in the least dead. The surgeon felt that it was a hard case, andsaid he'd take the risk of speaking to the C. O. About it. 

"The C. O. Of No. 97 General at that time was an oldish man, who sufferedfrom suppressed gout, which is the regular medical name for unsuppressedtemper. He said emphatically that Private Binny was reported dead, marked dead, removed from the hospital books, and must stay dead. Thewhole system of the R. A. M. C. Would break down, he said, and things woulddrift into chaos if dead men were allowed to come to life again wheneverthey chose. 

"The surgeon was a plucky young fellow in his way. Remembering howpretty the V. A. D. Looked when she cried, he pressed Binny's case onthe C. O. The old gentleman said he might have done something two hourssooner; but the hospital returns had gone to the D. D. M. S. And couldn'tpossibly be got back again or altered. In the end, after a lot more talkabout regulations and discipline, he said he'd telephone to the D. D. M. S. Office and see if anything could be done. It is greatly to his creditthat he did telephone, explaining the case as well as he could over afaulty wire. The staff colonel in the office was perfectly civil, butsaid that the returns had been forwarded by a motor dispatch rider toG. H. Q. And could not be recalled by any possibility. The C. O. , who seemsto have begun to realize the horrible position of Binny, asked advice asto what he ought to do. The staff colonel said he'd never come across acase of the kind before, but it seemed plain to him that Binny was dead, that is to say, officially dead. The Chaplain's Department, he thought, might be able to do something for a man after he was dead. If not nobodycould. 

"That, " said O'Byrne with a smile, "is where I came in. The C. O. Sent forme at once. "

"I suppose, " said Mackintosh, "that you straightened the whole thing outwithout difficulty?"

Mackintosh is always irritated at a suggestion that anyone connectedwith the medical profession can possibly make a mistake. When irritatedhe is apt to attempt a kind of heavy sarcasm which O'Byrne sucks in withobvious delight. 

"No, " said the padre, "I couldn't straighten it out. But I did the bestI could. I went to see poor Binny. He was in the mortuary by that time. I found him sitting up in his coffin crying like a child. I comfortedhim as well as I could. "

"Poor devil, " said Mackintosh. "Not that I believe a word of this story. It couldn't have happened. But you may as well go on and tell us whatyou did. Sang hymns to him, I suppose. "

"Not at all, " said the padre. "I got him something to eat and a coupleof blankets. That mortuary is a cold place, and, though you mightn'tthink it, a coffin is draughty. Next morning I buried him. "

"God bless me!" said the A. P. M. Explosively. "Do you mean to say youburied a man you knew to be alive?"

"Couldn't help it, " said the padre. "It was in orders, matter ofdiscipline, you know. Can't go back on discipline, can you, Mackintosh?I got through it as quickly as I decently could. Then I let Binny outThe graves in that cemetery are never filled in for an hour or two afterthe coffins are let down, so I had lots of time. Jolly glad poor Binnywas to get out. He said he'd shivered all over when he heard 'The LastPost. ' I had a suit of clothes for him; of course, civilian clothes. "

The padre filled himself a glass of whisky and soda and lit his pipe. He looked round with a smile of triumph. Most of us applauded him. Hedeserved it The story was one of his best imaginative efforts. I supposethe applause encouraged him to go further. 

"I'll give you his address if you like, " he said to the A. P. M. "He'sworking on a French farm and quite happy. But I don't see that you canpossibly arrest him without getting the whole medical profession on yourback. They said he was dead, you see, and, as Mackintosh will tell you, they never own up to making mistakes. "

IV ~~ THE SECOND BASS

"Be careful, Bates, " said Miss Willmot; "we don't want your neckbroken. "

"No fear, miss, " said Lance-Corporal Bates; "I'm all right. "

Lance-Corporal Bates had three gold bars on the sleeve of his tunic. He might fairly be reckoned a man of courage. His position, when MissWillmot spoke to him, demanded nerve. He stood on the top rail of theback of a chair, a feeble-looking chair. The chair was placed on a tablewhich was inclined to wobble, because one of its legs was half an inchshorter than the other three. Sergeant O'Rorke, leaning on the table, rested most of his weight on the seat of the chair, thereby balancingBates and preventing an upset. Miss Willmot sat on the corner of thetable, so that it wobbled very little. Bates, perilously balanced, hammered a nail, the last necessary nail, into the wall through thetopmost ray of a large white star. Then he crept cautiously down. 

Standing beside Miss Willmot he surveyed the star. 

"Looks a bit like Christmas, don't it, miss?" he said. 

"The glitters on it, " said Sergeant O'Rorke, "is the beautifullest thatever was seen. The diamonds on the King's Crown wouldn't be finer. "

The star hung on the wall of the canteen opposite the counter. It wasmade of cotton wool pasted on cardboard. The wool had been supplied bya sympathetic nurse from a neighbouring hospital. It was looted fromthe medical stores. The frosting, which excited Sergeant O'Rorke'sadmiration, was done with sugar. It was Miss Nelly Davis, youngest andmerriest of Miss Willmot's helpers, who suggested the sugar, when thepowdered glass ordered from England failed to arrive. 

"There can't be any harm in using it, " she said. "What we're getting nowisn't sugar at all, it is fine gravel. A stone of it wouldn't sweeten asingle urn of tea. "

Miss Willmot took the sugar from her stores as she accepted the lootedcotton-wool, without troubling to search for excuse or justification. She was a lady of strong will. When she made up her mind that theChristmas decorations of her canteen were to be the best in France shewas not likely to stick at trifling breaches of regulations. 

She looked round her with an expression of justifiable satisfaction. Thelong hut which served as a canteen looked wonderfully gay. Underneaththe white star ran an inscription done in large letters made of ivyleaves. Miss Willmot, in the course of two years' service in the canteenof a base camp, had gained some knowledge of the soldier's heartHer inscription was calculated to make an immediate appeal. "A MerryChristmas, " it ran, "And the Next in Blighty. " The walls of the hut werehung round with festoons of coloured paper. Other festoons, red, blue, and green stretched across the room from wall to wall under the lowceiling. Chinese lanterns, swinging on wires, threatened the head ofanyone more than six feet in height Sergeant O'Rorke, an Irish Guardsmanuntil a wound lamed him, now a member of the camp police force, hadto dodge the Chinese lanterns when he walked about Jam-pots andcigarette-tins, swathed in coloured paper, held bunches of holly andsprigs of mistletoe. They stood on the tables and the window sills. 

But the counter was the crowning glory of the canteen. In the middle ofit stood an enormous Christmas cake, sugar-covered, bedecked with flags. Round the cake, built into airy castles, were hundreds of crackers. Hugedishes, piled high with mince pies, stood in rows along the whole lengthof the counter on each side of the cake. Behind them, rising tothe height of five steps, was a long staircase made of packets ofcigarettes. 

"Sure, it's grand, " said Sergeant O'Rorke; "and there isn't one onlyyourself, miss, who'd do all you be doing for the men. "

Miss Willmot's eyes softened. They were keen, grey eyes, not often givento expressing tender feeling. At home in the old days men spoke of heras a good sport, who rode straight and played the game; but they seldomtried to make love to her. Women said she was a dear, and that it was athousand pities she did not marry. It was no sentimental recollection ofbygone Christmases which brought the look of softness into her eyes. Shewas thinking that next day the men for once would feast to the full inthe canteen--eat, drink, smoke, without paying a penny. She knew howwell they deserved all she could do for them, these men who had done somuch, borne so much, who still had so much to do and bear. Miss Willmotthanked God as she stood there that she had money to spend for the men. 

"Tea! tea! tea! Tea's ready. Come along, Miss Willmot. "

The call came from behind the counter. Miss Nelly Davis stood there, atall, fair girl in a long blue overall. 

"I've made toast and buttered it, and Mr. Digby's waiting. "

"Good evening, miss, and a happy Christmas to you, " said Bates. 

"If there's a happy Christmas going these times at all, " said SergeantO'Rorke, "it's yourself deserves it. "

"Thank you, thank you both, " said Miss Willmot "If it hadn't been foryour help I'd never have got the decorations done at all. "

The men left the hut, and Miss Willmot locked the door behind them. The canteen was closed until it opened in all its glory on Christmasafternoon. 

She passed through a door at the back of the counter, slipped off heroverall, stained and creased after a long day's work, then she went intothe kitchen. 

Miss Nelly Davis was bending over a packing-case which stood in themiddle of the kitchen floor. It served as a table, and she was spreadinga cloth on it In front of the stove stood a young man in uniform, wearing the badges of a fourth class Chaplain to the Forces. This wasMr. Digby. Once he had been the popular curate of St Ethelburga's, themost fashionable of London churches. In those days Miss Willmot wouldhave treated him with scorn. She did not care for curates. 

Now he was a fellow-worker in the Camp. His waterproof hung drippingbehind the kitchen door. Drops of rain ran down his gaiters. He wastrying to dry the knees of his breeches before the stove. Miss Willmotgreeted him warmly. 

"Terrific night, " he said; "rain coming down in buckets. Water runninground the camp in rivers. I say, Miss Davis, you'll have to get outanother cup. The Major's coming to tea. "

"There isn't a fourth cup, " said Miss Nelly. "You'll have to drink outof a mug. "

"Right-o! Mugs hold more, anyway. "

"All padres are greedy, " said Miss Nelly. "What's bringing the Majorhere?"

"I've arranged a practice of the Christmas carols, " said Digby. 

"Bother your old carols, " said Miss Nelly. 

"Must have a practice, " said Digby. "You and Miss Willmot are all right;but the Major is frightfully shaky over the bass. It won't do to breakdown to-morrow. By the way, Miss Willmot, there's something I want tospeak to you about before the Major comes. There's----"

"Before the Major comes, Nelly, " said Miss Willmot, "give me some tea. He always looks shocked when I drink four cups, so let me get throughthe first two before he arrives. "

"I wouldn't sit there if I were you, " said Digby. 

"There's a drip coming through the roof just there which will get you onthe back of the neck every time you lean forward. "

Miss Willmot shifted the biscuit-tin. It was not easy to find a spot toput it The roof of the kitchen leaked badly in several places. 

"Look here, Miss Willmot, " said Digby. "I wonder if you could doanything about this. I've just been round to the guard-room. There's apoor devil there----"

"Language! language!" said Miss Nelly. 

She was on her knees beside the stove rescuing her plate of toast fromdanger. Drops of water were falling on it from the knees of Digby'sbreeches every time he moved. 

"There is, " said Digby, speaking with great precision, "an unfortunateman at this moment incarcerated in the cell behind the guard-room, underthe stern keeping of the Provost Sergeant I hope that way of saying itsatisfies you, Miss Davis. "

"For goodness' sake, don't talk Camp shop, " said Miss Davis. "Let's haveour tea in peace. "

"Drink, I suppose, " said Miss Willmot "Why will they do it, just atChristmas, too?"

"This isn't a drunk, " said Digby. "The wretched devil has been sent downhere under arrest from No. 73 Hospital. He's to be court-martialled. He's only a boy, and a decent-looking boy, too. I hate to think of hisbeing shut up in that cell all by himself at Christmas with nobody to doanything for him. "

"What can we do?" said Miss Willmot. 

"I can't do anything, of course, " said Digby, "but I thought you might. "

"I don't see what I can do. "

"Well, try, " said Digby. "If you'd seen the poor fellow---- But you'lldo something for him, won't you?"

Digby had a fine faith in Miss Willmot's power to do "something"under any circumstances. Experience strengthened his faith instead ofshattering it. Had not Miss Willmot on one occasion faced and routed amedical board which tried to seize the men's recreation-room for its ownpurposes? And in the whole hierarchy of the Army there is no power moreunassailable than that of a medical board. Had she not obtained leavefor a man that he might go to see his dying mother, at a time when allleave was officially closed, pushing the application throughoffice after office, till it reached, "noted and forwarded for yourinformation, please, " the remote General in Command of Lines ofCommunication? Had she not bent to her will two generals, severalcolonels, and once even a sergeant-major? A padre, fourth class, thoughhe had once been curate of St. Ethelburga's, was a feeble person. ButMiss Willmot! Miss Willmot got things done, levelled entanglements ofbarbed red tape, captured the trenches of official persons by virtue ofa quiet persistence, and--there is no denying it--because the things shewanted done were generally good things. 

The Major opened the door of the kitchen. He stood for a moment on thethreshold, the water dripping from his cap and running down his coat, great drops of it hanging from his white moustache. He was nearer sixtythan fifty years of age. The beginning of the war found him settledvery comfortably in a pleasant Worcestershire village. He had a housesufficiently large, a garden in which he grew wonderful vegetables, anda small circle of friends who liked a game of bridge in the evenings. From these surroundings he had been dug out and sent to command a basecamp in France. He was a professional soldier, trained in the school ofthe old Army, but he had enough wisdom to realize that our new citizensoldiers require special treatment and enough human sympathy to bekeenly interested in the welfare of the men. He grudged neither time nortrouble in any matter which concerned the good of the Camp. He had veryearly come to regard Miss Willmot as a valuable fellow-worker. 

"Padre, " he said, "I put it to you as a Christian man, is this anevening on which anyone ought to be asked to practise Christmas carols?"

"Hear, hear, " said Miss Nelly. 

"We've only had one practice, sir, " said Digby, "and I've put up noticesall over the Camp that the carols will be sung to-morrow evening. It'sawfully good of you to come. "

"And of me, " said Miss Nelly. 

"You're here, in any case, " said Digby. "The men are tremendouslypleased, sir, " he added, "that you're going to sing. They appreciateit. "

"They won't appreciate it nearly so much when they hear me, " said theMajor. "I haven't sung a part for, I suppose, twenty years. "

Christmas carols have been sung, and we may suppose practisedbeforehand, in odd places, amid curious surroundings. But it is doubtfulwhether even the records of missionaries in heathen lands tell of achoir practice so unconventional as that held on Christmas Eve in thekitchen of Miss Willmot's canteen. 

The rain beat a tattoo on the corrugated iron roof. It dripped into adozen pools on the soaking floor, it fell in drops which hissed on tothe top of the stove. There was no musical instrument of any kind. Thetea-tray was cleared away and laid in a corner. The Major, white-haired, lean-faced, smiling, sat on the packing-case in the middle of the room. Miss Willmot sat on her biscuit-tin near the stove. Miss Nelly perched, with dangling feet, on a corner of the sink in which cups and disheswere washed Digby, choir-master and conductor, stood in front of thestove. 

"Now then, " he said, "we'll begin with 'Nowell. ' Major, here's yournote--La-a-a"--he boomed out a low note. "Got it?"

"La-a-a, " growled the Major. 

"Miss Willmot, alto, " said Digby, "la-a-a. That's right Miss Davis, athird higher, la-a-a. My tenor is F. Here's the chord. La, la, la, la. Now, one, two, three. 'The first Nowell the angels did say----'"

The rain hammered on the roof. The Major plodded conscientiously at hisbass. Miss Nelly sang a shrill treble. Digby gave the high tenor notesin shameless shouts. "Good King Wenceslas" followed, and "God rest youmerry, gentlemen. " Then the Major declared that he could sing no more. 

"I wish you'd get another bass, padre, " he said. "I'm not trying to backout, but I'm no good by myself. If I'd somebody to help me, a secondbass----"

"There's nobody, " said Digby. "I've scoured the whole camp looking for aman. "

"If only Tommy were here, " said Miss Nelly. 

"Tommy has a splendid voice. And I don't see why he mightn't be hereinstead of stuck in that silly old hospital He's quite well. He told meso yesterday. A bullet through the calf of the leg is nothing. Major, couldn't you get them to send Tommy over to the Camp just forto-morrow?"

The Major shook his head. He had every sympathy with Miss Nelly. He knewall about Tommy. So did Miss Willmot. So did Digby. Miss Nelly made nosecret of the fact that she was engaged to be married to Tommy Collins. She was proud of the fact that he was serving as a private in theWessex Borderers, wishing to work his way up through the ranks to thecommission that he might have had for the asking. No Wessex man everentered the canteen without being asked if he knew Private 7432 Collins, of the 8th Battalion. Every one--even the sergeant-major--had to listento scraps read out from Tommy's letters, written in trenches or inbillets. When Tommy was reported wounded, Miss Willmot had a bad day ofit with an almost hysterical Nelly Davis. When the wound turned outto be nothing worse than a hole in the calf of the leg, made by amachine-gun bullet, Miss Nelly cried from sheer relief. When, by thegreatest good luck in the world, Private 7432 Collins was sent down to73 General Hospital, no more than a mile distant from the Camp, MissNelly went wild with joy. 

"Can't be done, " said the Major. "If it were any other hospital--but thepeople in No. 73 don't like me. "

The Major was a stickler for extreme accuracy in the filling in of allofficial papers. The staff of No. 73 Hospital cured its patientsof their wounds, but sometimes turned them loose afterwards, insufficiently, occasionally even wrongly, described and classified. TheMajor invariably called attention to these mistakes. 

The Major, though particular on some points, was a kindly man. He didnot want to speak evil of the hospital authorities. He was also a littletired of hearing about Tommy Collins. He changed the subject abruptly. 

"By the way, Miss Willmot, " he said, "it's all right about the men'sChristmas dinner. I spent an hour this morning strafing everybody inthe cook-house. I told them they must try to make the Yorkshire pudding. Heaven knows what it will be like?"

"If they'll only follow the receipt I gave them----" said Miss Willmot. 

"_If_, " said Digby. "But those cooks are rotters. "

"Anyhow, " said the Major, "there'll be a decent dinner. Roast beef, plum pudding, oranges, and then all the things you have for them in thecanteen. They'll not do badly, not at all badly. "

He rubbed his hands together and smiled with benevolent satisfaction. Hehad arranged to eat his own Christmas dinner at the unholy hour ofthree in the afternoon. He meant to see that all went well at the men'sdinner, and that their tea was sufficient. He meant to look in foran hour at the canteen festivities. He had promised to sing Christmascarols. From three to four was the only time left at which he coulddine. But that thought did not spoil his satisfaction. 

Digby saw, or thought he saw, his opportunity. 

"There's one poor fellow in the guard-room, sir, " he said. "Will he getany Christmas dinner?"

He winked at Miss Willmot as he spoke. This was the time for her to backup his charitable appeal. 

"Ah, " said the Major, "I'm afraid I can't do much for him. It's aserious charge, a case of a Field General Court Martial. I'm afraidthere's no doubt about the facts. I'm sorry for him. He's quite young;but it's a disgraceful thing for any man to do. "

The Major's face hardened. For many offences and most offenders he hadsome sympathy; but a man who sinned against the code of military honourhad little pity to expect from the Major. 

Miss Willmot looked up. 

"Is it very bad?" she asked. 

"One of those cases of self-wounding, " said the Major. "Shot himself inthe leg with his own rifle. "

There are cases of this kind, a few of them. Some wretch, driven halffrantic by terror, worn out with hardships, hopeless of any end of hissufferings, seeks this way out. He gains a week of rest and security ina hospital ward. Then he faces the stern judgment of a court martial, and pays the penalty. 

"Poor fellow!" said Miss Willmot. "Poor boy! What he must have gonethrough before he did that!"

"He went through no more than any other man went through, " said theMajor; "but they stuck it and he shirked. There are men enough whodeserve our pity, Miss Willmot We can't afford to waste sympathy oncowards. "

Miss Willmot was of another mind. For her there was a law higher eventhan the Major's lofty code of chivalry and honour. She had pity tospare for cowards. 

The Major himself was not wholly consistent As he rose to leave thekitchen he spoke of the prisoner again. 

"He doesn't look like a man who'd do it. He looks like a gentleman. Thatmakes it worse, of course, much worse. All the same, he doesn't lookit. "

"Well?" said Digby, when the Major left. 

"I can't do anything, " said Miss Willmot "In a case of this kind there'snothing to be done. "

But Miss Willmot made up a little parcel before she left the canteen. There were cigarettes in it, and chocolate, and a couple of mince pies, and a large slice of cake, and some biscuits. Afterwards she actedlawlessly, offended against discipline, treated rules and regulationswith contempt. 

Sergeant O'Rorke was sitting in the guard-room playing patience whenMiss Willmot entered. He stood up at once and saluted. 

"Terrible weather, miss. I'll never say again that it rains in theCounty Galway. Sure, it doesn't know how. A man would have to come toFrance to find out what rain is. "

"Sergeant, " said Miss Willmot, "I want to speak to your prisoner. "

Sergeant O'Rorke scratched his ear doubtfully. Miss Willmot had no rightto see the prisoner. He had no right to open the door of the cell forher. They had hammered some respect for discipline into Sergeant O'Rorkewhen he served in the Irish Guards. But they had not hammered the Irishnature altogether out of him. He was willing to go to great lengths, totake risks in order to oblige a friend whom he liked and respected. Hehad an Irishman's feeling that laws and regulations are not meant toapply to ladies like Miss Willmot. 

"Did you think to ask leave of the Major, miss?" he said. 

"No, " said Miss Willmot, "I didn't ask anybody's leave. "

"That's a pity now, " said O'Rorke; "but sure the Major would never havesaid no if you'd have asked him. "

He fitted the key into the lock and flung open the door of the cell. 

"Prisoner, 'tention, " he said. 

Miss Willmot entered the small square room, lit by a single electriclight. It was entirely bare of all furniture, save a single rug, whichlay rolled up in a corner. The walls and floor were lined with sheets ofzinc A young man stood stiffly to attention in the middle of the room. Miss Willmot stared at him. 

Then she turned to Sergeant O'Rorke. "Shut the door please, sergeant, and wait outside. "

The young man neither stirred nor spoke. 

"Tommy!" said Miss Willmot. 

"7432! Private Collins, miss, 8th Wessex Borderers. "

He spoke in a tone of hard, cold fury. 

"Tommy, " said Miss Willmot. 

"Awaiting trial by Field General Court Martial on a charge ofdeliberately wounding himself in the leg. "

"Tommy, " said Miss Willmot again, "you didn't do that. "

The boy broke down suddenly. The hardness and the anger vanished. 

"Miss Willmot, " he said, "for God's sake don't tell Nelly that I'mhere. "

"You didn't do it, " said Miss Willmot. 

"Of course I didn't do it, " he said. "There's been some infernalblunder. I didn't know what the damned idiots meant when they put meunder arrest I didn't know what the charge was till they marched me into the C. O. Here. He told me. Oh, the Army's a nice thing, I can tellyou. I was expecting to get my stripe over that raid when I got hitwith a bullet in my leg, and here I am charged with a coward's trick. Isuppose they'll prove it I suppose they've got what they call evidence. I only hope they'll shoot me quick and have done with it I don't want tolive. "

Miss Willmot went over to the boy and took his hand. She led him to thecorner of the bare room. They sat down together on the folded blanketShe talked to him quietly, sanely, kindly. For half an hour she satthere with him. Before she left, hope had come back to him. 

"Don't you worry about my being here, " he said "If things are clearedup in the end I shan't mind a bit about spending a night or two in thiscell. With all the things you've brought me"--the cake, chocolate, andcigarettes were spread out on the floor--"I'll have a merry Christmas, better than the trenches, anyhow. But, I say, don't tell Nelly. Shemight fret. "

The Christmas festivities in the Camp were enormously successful. Themen had cold ham for breakfast, a special treat paid for by the Major. They assembled for church parade, and Digby gave them the shortestsermon ever preached by a padre. The Major, who liked to play the pianoat church service, was so startled by the abrupt conclusion of thediscourse, that he started "O Come, All ye Faithful, " in a key solow that no one could sing the second line. The Major pulled himselftogether. 

"As you were, " he said, and started again. 

The men, thoroughly roused by the novelty of the proceedings, yelled thehymn. The dinner was all that could be hoped. Sweating cooks staggeredinto the dining-hall with huge dishes of meat and steaming cauldrons ofpotatoes. Sergeants, on that day acting as servants to the men, bore offfrom the carving-tables plates piled high. The Yorkshire pudding lookedlike gingerbread, but the men ate it The plum pudding was heavy, solid, black. 

The Major, smiling blandly, went from table to table. Miss Nelly, flushed with excitement and pleasure, laughed aloud. Only Miss Willmotlooked on with grave eyes, somewhat sad. She was thinking of TommyCollins in his cell, with the weight of an intolerable accusationhanging over him. 

Later on, not even Miss Willmot had time to be thoughtful. There wasa pause in the festivities for an hour or two after dinner. The mensmoked, slept, or kicked at a football with spasmodic fits of energy. Then the canteen was opened. Miss Willmot's great cake was cut The menpassed in a long file in front of the counter. Miss Willmot handed eachman a slice of cake. Other ladies gave crackers and mince pies. Digby, garrulous and friendly, distributed cigarettes. The Major stood at thefar end of the room under the glistening white star. He was waiting forthe moment to arrive at which he should make his speech, a speech sureto be received with genuine applause, for it was to be in praise of MissWillmot The Major did that kind of thing well. He had the proper touch, could catch the note appropriate for votes of thanks. He knew histalent, and that Christmas Day he meant to do his best. 

An orderly entered the canteen, looked round it, caught sight of theMajor. He pushed his way through a crowd of laughing men who munchedcake, smoked furiously, and decked each others' heads with paper capsfrom crackers. He reached the Major at last, and handed him a note. The Major read it and swore. Then he began to push his way towards thecounter. The orderly followed him. 

"Gangway, " he called, "gangway, men. Make way for the Major. "

Way was made at last The Major seized Digby by the arm. 

"It's a damned nuisance, " he said. "I beg pardon, padre, an infernalnuisance. I've got to go to the orderly room. Those fellows in No. 3Hospital are ringing me up. Why couldn't they keep quiet on ChristmasDay? I must go though, and I may be kept. You'll have to make the speechand thank Miss Willmot. "

Digby escaped making the speech in the end. Just as the distribution ofcakes and mince pies had finished, when Digby was searching franticallyfor an opening sentence, the Major returned. He made two speeches. Onewas in a low voice across the counter to Miss Willmot. The other was tothe men. It was all about Miss Willmot. It was beautifully phrased. But she did not hear a word of it She was scarcely aware of the men'scheers, though the paper festoons swayed to and fro, and the Chineselanterns shook with the violence of the shouting. For the Major had saidthis to her:

"It's all right about that boy in the guard-room, the prisoner you know, who was to have been court-martialled. Some blatant idiot of an orderlysergeant mixed up two sets of papers, and put the wrong man underarrest. They're sending over the right man now. I told Sergeant O'Rorketo bring that poor boy straight here from the guard-room. Keep a bit ofcake for him. "

It was while the men were cheering the Major's other speech that TommyCollins, guided by Sergeant O'Rorke, entered the canteen. 

Miss Nelly saw him at once. She stretched herself across the counter tograsp his hands, upsetting the few remaining mince pies, and scatteringcrackers right and left. If the counter had not been so broad and highshe would in all probability have kissed him. 

"Oh, Tommy!" she said. "And I'd given up all hope of seeing you. This isjust a perfect Christmas box. How did you get here?"

Tommy Collins looked appealingly to Miss Willmot. His eyes begged heras plainly as if words had crossed his lips not to tell the story of hisarrest. 

"Now you are here, " said Miss Nelly, "you must help us with the carols. The Major's a perfect darling, but he can't sing bass for nuts. You'lldo it, won't you? I'm singing, and so is Miss Willmot. "

V ~~ HER RIGHT

Mrs. Jocelyn was generally considered a clever woman. Her husbandrespected her intellect. He was, and still is, Professor of Psychologyin one of our younger Universities, so he could give an expert's opinionon any question of mental capacity. Her sons said she was clever. Therewere two young Jocelyns, Ned, a barrister, and Tom, a junior master in apublic school. Ned used to give me his opinion of his mother very often. 

"The mater is extraordinarily clear-headed, " he would say. "If you wantto see your way through a muddle, just you talk it over with her. It'san awful pity she----"

Then Ned would shrug his shoulders. He was a loyal son, and he neversaid in plain words what the pity was. Tom spoke in the same way. 

"Dad's all right, " he used to say, "European reputation and all that;but the mater has the brains of our family. If only she wouldn't----"

I agreed with both of them. Mrs. Jocelyn was one of the cleverest womenI ever met, but--well, on one subject she was an intolerable bore. Thatsubject was Woman's Suffrage. She could not keep off it for verylong, and once she started there was no stopping her. All her friendssuffered. It cannot be said that she argued. She demanded, aggressivelyinsisted on sex equality, on justice and right for women, right in everysphere of life, political right, social right, economic right, all kindsof other right. 

This, of course, was in the old days before the war. Since August, 1914, most things have changed. Professor Jocelyn, indeed, still lectures onpsychology, half-heartedly now, to a rapidly dwindling class of youngwomen. But Ned Jocelyn's name is painted in black letters on a brownwooden cross at the head of a grave--one of a long row of graves--in aFrench cemetery. Tom is trying to learn to walk without crutches in thegrounds of an English hospital. Mrs. Jocelyn is out in France, workingin a canteen, working very hard. It is only occasionally now that shedemands a "right;" but when she does, she demands it, so I understand, with all her old ferocious determination to get it This is the story ofhow she once demanded and took a "right. "

It was nearly midday, and the camp lay under a blazing sun. It was earlyin July, when all England and all France were throbbing with hope, prideand terror as the news of the "Big Push" came in day by day. Therewas little calm, and few hearts at ease in those days, but Number 50Convalescent Camp looked peaceful enough. It is miles from the firingline. No shells ever burst over it or near it. Only occasionally can thedistant rumble of the guns be heard. A spell of dry weather had crackedthe clay of the paths which divided it into rectangles. The grass wasburnt and brown. The flower beds, in spite of diligent watering, lookedparched. The great white tents, marquees guyed up with many ropes, shonewith a blinding glare. In the strips of shade made by the fly sheetsof the tents, men lay in little groups. Their tunics were unbuttonedor cast aside. They smoked and chatted, speaking slowly and briefly. Oftener they slept. 

Only in one corner of the camp was there any sign of activity. Near themain entrance is the orderly room. Inside, a sweating adjutant toiledat a mass of papers on the desk before him. From time to time a sergeantentered the room, saluted, spoke sharply, received his orders, salutedand went out again. From the clerk's room next door came the soundof voices, the ceaseless clicking of a typewriter, and the frequentclamorous summons of a telephone bell. Outside, orderlies hurried, stepping quickly in one direction or another, to the Quarter-master'sstores, to the kitchen, to the wash-houses, to twenty other points inthe great camp to which orders must go, and from which messages mustreturn. The bugler stood in the verandah outside the orderly room, ready to blow his calls or strike the hours with a hammer on a suspendedlength of railway line. At the entrance gate, standing sharply toattention as a guardsman should, even under a blazing sun, was PrivateMalley, of the Irish Guards, wounded long ago, now wearing the brassardof the Military Police. He saw to it that no person unauthorized enteredthe camp. Above him, limp from its staff, hung the Red Cross flag, unrecognizable that day, since there was no faintest breeze to stir itsfolds. 

Close by the flag staff is the little dressing station. Here the men inthe camp, men discharged from hospital, are seen by the doctors andthe period of their rest and convalescence is decided. They are marked"Fit, " and go to the fighting again, or sent back and enjoy goodquarters and pleasant food for a while longer. Or--best hope--marked"Blighty" and go home. This is the routine. But sometimes there is adifference. There had been a difference every day since the "Big Push"started. Outside the dressing station was a group of forty or fiftymen. They lay on the ground, most of them sound asleep. They lay in thestrangest attitudes, curled up, some of them; others with arms and legsflung wide, the attitudes of men utterly exhausted, whose overpoweringneed is rest. Some sat huddled up, too tired to sleep, blinking theireyes in the strong sunshine. Most of these men wore bandages. Bandageswere on their heads, their hands, their arms and legs, where sleeves andtrousers had been cut away. Some of them had lost their caps. Onehere and there had lost a boot. Many of them wore tattered tunics andtrousers with long rents in them. All of them were covered with mud, mudthat had dried into hard yellow cakes. These were men sent straight downfrom the field dressing stations, men who had been slightly wounded, soslightly that there was no need for them to go to hospital. Among themthere was one man who neither lay huddled nor sprawled. He sat upright, his knees drawn up to his chest, held tight in his clasped hands. Hestared straight in front of him with wide, unblinking eyes. Of all themen in the group, he was the muddiest His clothes were caked with mud. His face was covered with mud. His hair was matted with mud. Also hisclothes were the raggedest of all. The left leg of his trousers was rentfrom knee to waistband. The skin of his thigh shone white, strangelywhite compared to his face and hands, through the jagged tear. Thesleeves of his tunic were torn. There was a hole in the back of it, and one of his shoulder straps was torn off. He was no more than a boy, youthful-looking compared even to the men, almost all of them young, wholay around him. He had a narrow face with that look of alert impudencewhich is common on the faces of gutter snipes in large cities. 

As he sat staring he spoke now and then, spoke to himself, for there wasno one to listen to him. 

"We beat them, " he said once. "We gave them the damnedest beating. Westrafed them proper, and they ran. The Prussian Guards they was. "

His accent betrayed him. He must have come from Lancashire, from somegrimy Lancashire town, from Warrington or Bolton, from Liverpool itselfperhaps, or Manchester. Before the war there were crowds of such boysthere. They made up the football crowds on Saturday afternoons. Theymade the countryside hideous on bank holiday afternoons. They were thedespair of church and chapel, of the social reformer, and often ofthe police. This boy was under-sized, of poor chest development, thin-limbed, weedy; but there was a curious light in those staring eyesof his. 

He turned to the man on his right, a great, heavy-jawed Irishman with abandaged knee, who was sound asleep. 

"Wake up, Pat, " he says, "wake up till I tell you how we strafed Fritz. Out in the open it was, the Prussian Guards. "

But the Irishman slept on. Neither shaking nor shouting roused a sign ofintelligence in him. The boy turned to the man on his left, a Canadian, an older man with a gentle, worn face. Perhaps because he was older ormore utterly wearied out, or in pain this man waked and raised himselfon one elbow. 

"We went for them proper, " said the boy. "Prussians they was and Guards. They thought they'd walk over us; but by God we talked to them, talkedto them with the bayonet, we did. "

A slow smile played across the Canadian's face. 

"Say, Tommy, " he said, "what's your name?"

"Wakeman, Private Wakeman, No. 79362. Gosh, Canada, but we handled themand they ran. "

"They certainly did run some, " said the Canadian slowly. 

Then Wakeman poured out his story, a wonderful story, told in jerkysentences, garnished with blasphemies and obscene words. He had been amember of the Lewis Gun team. Very early in the advance the bursting ofa high explosive shell had buried him, buried the whole gun team withits officer, buried the gun. Wakeman and three other men and the officerhad crawled out from the mud and débris. Somehow they had unearthed thegun. Driven on by a kind of frenzy, they had advanced again, halting, firing a drum of cartridges, advancing again. Once more a shell caughtthem and buried them. Once more Wakeman crawled out, clawed his way outwith hooked fingers, bit the loose clay with his mouth, bored throughit with his head, dug at it with his toes. This time he and the officerwere alone. They struggled to recover their gun, working fiercely, tilla bullet hit the officer. After that Wakeman went on by himself, managedsomehow to get among the men of the company to which his gun teambelonged, and possessed himself of a rifle. At that point his storybecame incoherent. But about one thing he was clear. He and the othersof his company had met in straight hand to hand fighting the proudesttroops of Germany. By stabbing, lunging, battering with clubbed rifles, they had put the Prussian Guard to flight. 

"Well, " drawled the Canadian, "they did run. They certainly did runsome. And what's the matter with you, sonny? Hit?"

"Buried, " said Wakeman, "buried twice, and shrapnel in my leg, littlebits. "

The bits were little, but there were a good many of them. Half an hourlater Wakeman passed into the dressing station in his turn. The doctorlooked him over, scribbled a word or two on the label which hung fromthe lad's breast pocket, and patted him on the shoulder. 

"You'll be all right, my boy, " he said. "No shell shock. No D. A. H. Getalong with you. Feeling a bit hungry, eh?"

"Thank you, sir, " said Wakeman. "Yes, sir, feel as if I could do witha bit of something to eat The way of it was this, sir. We strafed themproper, we did. The Prussian Guards they was, and----"

But the doctor had no time to listen to the story. "Get along now. Get along. The sooner the dressing is done, the sooner you'll get yourdinner. "

The story, which the doctor would not hear, bubbled out into the earsof the nursing sister who picked the scraps of shrapnel out of Wakeman'sleg. They were tiny fragments, most of them, but there were a greatmany, and it took the nurse twenty minutes to get through her job. Thestory was told twice over in jerks and snatches, just as it had beentold to the Canadian, only the obscene words were unuttered and theoaths, when they slipped out now and then, were followed by apologies. Every soldier, even a Lancashire gutter snipe, has in him this curiousinstinct. His talk is commonly full of blasphemies and obscenities, devoid of all sense or meaning, efforts at futile emphasis, apparentlynecessary and inevitable. But if there is a woman within earshot, nosuch words pass his lips. A girl might sit all day among these men, and, if they knew she was there, her ears would never be sullied with thesound of a foul word. 

Released at last from the dressing station, Wakeman and five or sixothers were taken to the bathhouse. The corporal who led the way, thebath orderly who provided soap and towels, and the wounded Irishman whowas given the bath next to Wakeman's, all heard scraps of the story, learnt the essential fact that Wakeman and his pals had strafed thePrussian Guard. It was the Irishman who reduced the excited boy tosilence for a few minutes. 

"What do you want to be talking that way for?" he said. "Didn't we allgive them hell? Didn't I bring back three prisoners myself. Three? It'sfive I would have had, only for a stray shell that bursted alongside ofthe communication trench and lifted two of them off me. Bad luck to thatsame shell, for a bit of it took me under the knee. But what matter?Only, mind this, what you did to the Prussian Guard wasn't in it withwhat that shell did to them two Boches. You'd have been sorry for theblighters, so you would, if so be you could have found a bit of eitherof them big enough to be sorry for. "

Wakeman had no reply to make to that. It is not possible with a bayonet, or even with a Lewis gun, to cause the total disappearance of an enemy'sbody. 

After his bath, with a clean shirt on him and a clean pair of socks, Wakeman dined. There is no lack of good food in Number 50 ConvalescentCamp, and men recovering from wounds often have healthy appetites. ButWakeman ate, gorged himself, to the astonishment even of the kitchenorderlies. Plateful after plateful of stewed meat and potatoes, steamingand savoury, disappeared. Yet there was no sign about the boy of thelassitude of repletion. His eyes remained bright and glanced rapidlyhere and there. His body was still alert, the movements of his handsquick and decisive. 

After dinner, rest Wakeman found himself with other new-comers in a tentin the corner of the camp. The Irishman was there, still lamenting inpicturesque phrases the loss of his two prisoners. 

"And the biggest of them--a fine figure of a man he was--had thebeautifullest helmet on him that ever was seen; worth twenty francs itwas, any day, and me without a penny in my pocket But where was it afterthe shell bursted? Tell me that if you can. "

The Canadian was there, patiently ready to listen to any story, havingapparently no story of his own to tell. Wakeman began again. 

"It was the Prussian Guard, " he said, "and we gave them proper hell, wedid, out in the open. No blasted machine guns. Just them and us with thebayonet And----"

He talked in vain. In the tent were beds, real beds with mattresses ofwoven wire, and palliasses stuffed with straw. Stretched flat on hisback the Irishman snored. His head pillowed on his folded arm theCanadian slept peacefully, a quiet smile, like a child's, on his face. Wakeman looked at them and snorted with contempt For him no sleep waspossible. He pulled a bench to the door of the tent, and sat in thesunshine. He found the lid of a cigarette tin and set to work to scrapethe mud off his clothes and boots. But the work wearied him. With apiece of string he laced up the long rent in his trousers, cuttingholes in the material with the blade of a knife. Then, still obstinatelydisinclined for sleep, he went out to explore the camp. 

At one end of the camp is a hut, a long, low building. It is one ofthose canteens and recreation huts, which, working through variousorganizations, the public at home provides for the men in France. Theyare familiar enough to everyone in France, and the men know that thereis a welcome for them however often they pass the doors. In this hutMrs. Jocelyn works all day long and every day. 

Sometimes she cooks, making vast puddings, stewing cauldrons full ofprunes or figs. Sometimes she stands behind the counter serving bowlsof tea, coffee, cocoa, lemonade, to thirsty men. Sometimes, halfasphyxiated with tobacco smoke, she sits at the piano and hammers outrag-time tunes, while the men crowd round her, their faces close to heras they peer at the music, their voices threatening her with deafnesswhen they bellow in her ears. Sometimes she sits for an hour beside somedull-eyed victim of shell shock, patiently trying to coax or trick himback to some interest in life again, giving him, literally, her ownvitality, until, "virtue gone out" of her, she must seek fresh strengthfor herself in the less exhausting toil of a scullery maid. Thus shepays to man the debt she owes to God for the cross over the grave of oneson dead, and the unconquerable spirit of the other crippled. 

It was a slack hour when Private Wakeman, in his grotesquely tatteredclothes, limped through the door. Only a few men were in the hut, writing or playing draughts. A boy at the piano was laboriouslybeating out a discordant version of "Tennessee. " Mrs. Jocelyn sat on apacking-case, a block of paper on her knee, writing a letter to a manwho had left the camp to go up the line again. Another woman, a fellowworker, was arranging plates of cakes and biscuits on the counter, piling bowls ready to hand for the crowd of men who would come later, clamouring for tea. 

Private Wakeman stood in the middle of the hut and looked around him. Hesought companionship, longed to find some one to whom he could tell hisstory and make his boast about the Prussian Guard. His eyes wanderedfrom one to another of the men who were writing or playing games. Hefound little encouragement. It seemed impossible to join himself to anyone of them. He looked at the lady busy with the bowls and plates. Hiseyes rested at last on a great dish of stewed figs which stood on thecounter. He had eaten an incredible quantity of food in the dining-halltwo hours before, soup, beef, potatoes, cabbage, pudding, cheese. Buthe had not eaten stewed figs. His whole boy's nature rose in him in onefierce longing for stewed figs. He remembered. Before he went into theattack he had possessed half a franc and two sous. He thrust his handinto his one trouser pocket. It was empty. He tore at the string withwhich he had laced up the slit in his trousers. On that side there wasnot a pocket left. It and all it ever contained, were gone. He fumbledin the pockets of his tunic, found three mangled cigarettes, the stumpof a pencil, a letter from his mother, and, at last, two English pennystamps, survivals of days which seemed years ago, when he had been incamp in England. 

His eyes were fixed on the stewed figs. The longing in him grew fiercer, intolerable. He approached the counter slowly. He laid on it the twostamps, dirty almost beyond recognition. He smoothed them out carefully. 

"Lady, " he said, "I haven't got no money but----"

The worker laid down her bowls, looked at the two stamps, and thenat the boy. She was a woman of experience and discernment She saw themuddy, tattered clothes. She read the look of desire in the eyes. Sheunderstood. 

"What do you want?" she said. 

"Stewed fruit, lady, and--and custard. "

She turned from the boy to Mrs. Jocelyn. 

"It's clean against all rules, " she said. "I know I oughtn't to, but Imust---I simply must give this boy something. "

Mrs. Jocelyn looked up from her writing. She saw all that the other hadseen. She had talked with many men. One glance was enough for her. Sheknew what the boy had been through. With swift intuition she guessed atwhat he felt and how he yearned. She saw the name of his regiment on hisone remaining shoulder strap. It was her dead boy's regiment, and everyman in it was dear to her. Already the other lady was at work, putting aspoonful of stewed figs on a soup plate. Mrs. Jocelyn seized her by thearm and dragged her roughly back from the counter. 

"Don't dare to do it, " she said, "it's my right No one else has so gooda right to do it as I have. "

So Private Wakeman sat down to a plate piled with stewed figs, swampedwith a yellowish liquid called custard in canteens in France. Beside himwere jam tarts and great slabs of cake. From a mouth never empty, thoughhe swallowed fast, came in short gushes the story of the strafing of thePrussian Guard, told at last to ears which drank in greedily every wordof it. 

So Mrs. Jocelyn claimed and took at last her dearest right. 

VI ~~ JOURNEY'S END

I had a long journey before me, and I looked forward to it with dread. It is my habit when forced to travel in France, the part of Francechiefly affected by the war, to resign myself to a period of misery. Irelapse into a condition of sulky torpor. Railway Transport Offices mayamuse themselves by putting me into wrong trains. Officers in command oftrains may detach the carriage in which I am and leave it for hours ina siding. My luggage may be--and generally is--hopelessly lost. I mayarrive at my destination faint for want of food. But I bear allthese things without protest or complaint. This is not because I amparticularly virtuous or self-trained to turn the other cheek to thesmiter. I am morally feeble, deficient in power of self-defence, a loverof peace with discomfort, rather than honourable strife. 

I felt no small joy when I discovered that Thompson was to be mytravelling companion on this particular journey. I had travelled withThompson before. I knew that he always secured food, that he never losthis luggage, that he had an instinct for recognizing the right trainwhen he saw it, and that he had a healthy disregard for the dignity ofthe official persons who clog the feet of wayfarers in France. 

We met at the station. Thompson's breezy good humour gave me freshconfidence at once. He looked energetic, hopeful and charged withvitality. 

"Come along. " he said, "we'll report to the R. T. O. At once and get itover. "

In France under existing conditions the traveller reports to the RailwayTransport Officer when he starts his journey, when he finishes it andat all intervening opportunities. An R. T. O. Must lead a harassed anddistressful life. He sees to it that the traveller has a fair share oflife's trouble. 

This particular R. T. O. Began by trying to get us into a wrong train. Isuppose that was the line of least resistance for him. It was easier toput us into the first train that came along. We should have been off hishands, and another R. T. O stationed somewhere else, would have had thejob of getting us switched back on to our proper track again. The firstman--and this was all he cared for--would have been rid of us. Thompsonwas equal to the situation. He talked vigorously to that R. T. O. . Thompson holds no very exalted rank in the army. I often wonder he isnot tried by Court Martial for the things he says. But the R. T. O. , sofar from resenting Thompson's remarks, offered us a sort of apology. 

"I've been on duty ten hours, " he said, "and there's a whole batteryof artillery lost somewhere along the line. It never was my fault; butevery general in the whole army has been ringing me up about it. Thetelephone bell hasn't stopped all day. Damn! There it is again. "

It was; loud, angry and horribly persistent. Even Thompson felt sorryfor the R. T. O. 

"Never mind, " he said, "you'll get your Military Cross all right in theend. All you fellows do. Now buck up a bit and find our train for us. It's X. We want to get to. "

I mention this incident to show the kind of man Thompson is and his wayof dealing with difficulties. Under his care I felt that I should travelsafely and get to X. In the end. Comfort was not to be expected, butThompson did all that could be done to mitigate our misery. 

We made our start from a platform blocked with piles of officers'luggage and crowded with confused and anxious men. Subalterns in chargeof drafts asked other subalterns what they ought to do and receivedcounter inquiries by way of reply. Sergeants stormed blasphemously atmen who had disappeared in search of tea. Staff officers, red tabbedand glorious, tried to preserve an appearance of dignity while theirown servants staggering under the weight of kit bags, bumped into them. Hilarious men, going home on leave, shouted sudden snatches of song. A decrepit Frenchman, patient in the performance of duty, blewfeeble blasts on a small horn. Thompson, alert and competent, found acompartment. He put me in and then he bundled in my valise. Afterthat he found his own luggage, an enormous kit bag, two sacks, a campbedstead, a hammock chair and a number of small parcels. 

"Get them in somehow, " he said. "We'll settle down afterwards. "

Thompson did the settling afterwards. He so arranged our belongings thatwe each had a seat The door by which anyone else might have to get inat another station was hopelessly blocked. The small parcels were put onthe rack above our heads. Thompson gave me a list of their contentsas he put them in their places. They contained bread, butter, meat, biscuits, cheese, a bottle of wine and a flask of brandy. 

"We're here till two o'clock to-morrow morning--till two o'clock at bestWe must have something to eat. "

A selfish traveller--I am profoundly selfish--would have been contentto keep that compartment secure from intrusion. We had completelybarricaded the door and no one could have got in if we had chosen todefend our position. But Thompson was not selfish. The train stopped ata station every quarter of an hour or so, and Thompson climbing up thebarricade, opened the window and took a look out every time we stopped. At one station--it was then about 7 p. M. And quite dark--he discovereda forlorn boy--a second-lieutenant--who was trying to find room forhimself and his belongings. Thompson hailed him. The next five minuteswere passed in fierce toil by all of us. But before the train startedThompson got the boy and his belongings into our compartment. In myopinion no second-lieutenants ought to be allowed to possess a suit-caseas well as a valise. This boy also had three top-coats and a Jaeger rug. We spent nearly half an hour settling down again after that. Then wedined, sharing the food--Thompson's food--with the second-lieutenant. Hewas a nice boy and very grateful. I thought him a little garrulous, butThompson encouraged him to talk. He told us all about his job. It washis duty to go up in captive balloons and send down messages to theartillery. It was, by his account, a sea-sicky business, worse by severaldegrees than crossing the Channel in the leave boat. Thompson, who hasa thirst for every kind of information, questioned and cross-questionedthe boy. After dinner--dinner was Thompson's name for our meal--Iprepared to go to sleep. Thompson arranged valises on the floor in sucha way that I could stretch my legs. The boy went on talking. He toldThompson that he had dropped out of the ballooning business and that hewas going to X. To submit to a special course of training. I forget whatit was, bombing probably, or the use of trench mortars, possiblymap reading or--a subject part of the school curriculum of ourgrandmothers--the use of globes. The army has a passion for impartingknowledge of any kind to temporary lieutenants. I went to sleep whileThompson was explaining just where the boy's particular course ofinstruction was given, a camp some three or four miles out of X. Thompson has an amazing knowledge of what naturalists would call thehabitat of the various parts of the army. 

At 3 a. M. I was awakened from my sleep. We had reached, an hour late, the junction at which we had to change. Thompson and the boy were bothalert and cheerful. They had, I fancy, been talking all the time. Ourjunction proved to be a desolate, windswept platform, without a sign ofshelter of any kind except a bleak-looking cabin, the habitation of thelocal R. T. O. Thompson roused him ruthlessly and learned that, with luck, we might expect our next train to start at six. I shivered. Three hours, the very coldest in the twenty-four, on that platform, did not strike meas a pleasant prospect Thompson used a favourite phrase of his. 

"After all, " he said, "it's war; what the French call _La Guerre_. "He professed to have discovered, not from the R. T. O. But from a sleepyFrench railway official, that the train, our train in which we were totravel, was somewhere in the neighbourhood, waiting for its engine. Itdid not come to us from anywhere else; but made its start, so to speaktook its rise, at that junction. Thompson and our new friend, the boy, proposed to get into the train when they found it. 

Thompson can speak French of a sort, but he does not understand thelanguage as spoken by the French people. I did not believe that he hadreally found out about that train. I declined to join in the search. He and the boy went off together. They came back in about half an hour. They said they had found a train standing by itself in a field and thatit must be ours because there was no other. The reasoning did not seenconclusive to me, but I agreed to go and sleep in whatever train theyhad found. I suggested that we should leave our luggage on the platformand pick it up when the train got there at 6 a. M. 

"That, " said Thompson, "is just the way luggage gets lost. Suppose--Idon't say it's likely or even possible--but suppose the train we getinto goes somewhere else. Nice fools we'd look, turning up in Paris orMarseilles without a brush or comb among us. No. Where I go I take myluggage with me. "

Thompson was evidently not so sure about that train as he pretendedto be. But I had reached a pitch of hopeless misery which left meindifferent about the future. It did not seem to me to matter muchjust then whether I ever got to X. Or not. We had to make three trips, stumbling over railway lines and sleepers, in the dark, falling intowet ditches and slipping on muddy banks; but in the end we got all ourluggage, including the boy's top-coats, into a train which lay lifelessand deserted in a siding. 

This time Thompson and the boy slept. I sat up stiff with cold. Athalf-past five a French railway porter opened our door and invited usto descend, alleging that he wanted to clean the carriage. I was quitepleased to wake Thompson who was snoring. 

"Get up, " I said, "there's a man here who wants to clean the carriageand we've got to get out. "

"I'm damned if I get out, " said Thompson. 

The Frenchman repeated his request most politely. If the gentlemen wouldbe good enough to descend he would at once clean the carriage. 

Thompson fumbled in his pocket and got out an electric torch. At firstI thought he meant to make sure that the carriage required cleaning. Thinking things over I came to the conclusion that he felt he could talkFrench better if he could see a little. He turned his ray of light onthe Frenchman and said slowly and distinctly:

"Nous sommes officiers anglais, et les officiers anglais ne descendentpas--jamais. "

The Frenchman blinked uncertainly. Thompson added:

"Jamais de ma vie. "

That settled the French porter. He was face to face with one ofthe national idiosyncrasies of the English, a new one to him andincomprehensible, but he submitted at once to the inevitable. He gave upall idea of cleaning the carriage and Thompson went to sleep again. Theboy slept soundly through the whole business. 

At half-past seven--the train had been jogging along since six--Thompsonwoke and said he thought he'd better shave. The proposal struck me asabsurd. 

"We can't possibly shave, " I said, "without water. "

Thompson was quite equal to that difficulty. The next time the trainstopped--it stopped every ten minutes or so--he hopped out with afolding drinking cup in his hand. He returned with the cup full of hotwater. He had got it from the engine driver. He and I shaved. The boystill slept, but, as Thompson pointed out, that did not matter. He wastoo young to require much shaving. 

"Nice boy that, " said Thompson. "Son of an archdeacon; was at Cambridgewhen the war broke out. Carries a photo of his mother about with him. Only nice boys carry photos of their mothers. He has it in alittle khaki-coloured case along with one of the girl he's going tomarry--quite a pretty girl with tously hair and large eyes. "

"Oh, he's engaged to be married, is he?"

"Of course he is. That sort of boy is sure to be. Just look at him. "

As he lay there asleep his face looked extraordinarily young andinnocent. I admitted that he was just the sort of boy who would getengaged to the first girl who took him seriously. 

"Girl's out here nursing, " said Thompson. "V. A. D. Evidently has a strongsense of duty or she wouldn't be doing it V. A. D. -ing isn't precisely acushy job. He's tremendously in love. "

"Seems to have confided most of his affairs in you, " I said. 

"Told me, " said Thompson, "that the girl has just been home on leave. Hehoped to get back, too, to meet her, thinks he would have got a week ifhe hadn't been ordered off on this course, bombing or whatever it is. "

Thompson washed while he talked. It could scarcely be called a realwash, but he soaped his face, most of his neck and his ears with hisshaving brush and then dipped his handkerchief in the drinking cup andwiped the soap off. He was certainly cleaner afterwards; but I felt thatwhat was left of the water would not clean me. 

Later on Thompson secured some rolls of bread, two jam pastries and sixapples. The bread and pastry I think he bought The apples I am nearlysure he looted. I saw a large basket of apples in one of the waggons ofa train which was standing in the station at which Thompson got out tobuy our breakfast They were exactly like the apples he brought back. 

We woke up the boy then. It did not matter whether he shaved or not; butat his age it is a serious thing to miss a chance of food. 

About midday we arrived at a large town. Thompson learned from theR. T. O. Who inhabited the railway station there that we could not get atrain to take us any further till ten o'clock that night. He said againthat was war, what the French call _guerre_, but he seemed quite pleasedat the prospect of the wait He spoke of looking for a proper meal anda Turkish bath. The bath we did not succeed in getting; but we had anexcellent luncheon: omelette, fried fish, some kind of stewed meat and abottle of red wine. The boy stuck to us and told us a lot more about hisgirl. His great hope, he said, was that he would meet her somewhere inFrance. I could see that what he really looked forward to was a wound ofa moderately painful kind which would necessitate a long residence, asa patient, in her hospital. He was, as Thompson said, a nice boy; buthe talked too much about the girl. He was also a well-educated boy andanxious to make the best of any opportunities which came his way. Hetold us that there was an interesting cathedral in the town and proposedthat we should all go and see it after lunch. Thompson is not anirreligious man. Nor am I. We both go to church regularly, though not toexcess, but we do not either of us care for spending week day afternoonsin a cathedral. Thompson still hankered after a Turkish bath. I had aplan for getting a bedroom somewhere and going to sleep. We sent the boyoff to the cathedral by himself. 

The Turkish bath, as I said, was unobtainable We walked through most ofthe streets of that town looking for it. Then Thompson proposed that weshould have afternoon tea. That we got in a small room above apastry cook's shop. The girl who served us brought us tea and a largeassortment of sticky pastry. Thompson hates sticky pastry. There is onlyone kind of cake made in France which he will eat. I knew what it was, for I had often had tea with Thompson before. I should have recognizedone if I had seen it; but I could not remember the French name for itThompson insisted on describing its appearance to the girl. He gave hisdescription in English and the girl looked puzzled. I tried to translatewhat he said into French and she looked still more puzzled. 

Then from the far corner of the room came a pleasant voice. 

"I think _brioche_ is the word you want. " It was. I recollected itdirectly I heard it. I turned to thank our interpreter. She was a youngwoman in the uniform of a V. A. D. She was sitting at a table by herself, was, in fact, the only other occupant of the room. I thanked her. Thompson joined in and thanked her effusively. There was not much lightin the room and her corner was decidedly gloomy. Still, it was possibleto see that she was a decidedly pretty girl. We both said that if therewas anything we could do for her we should be very pleased to do itAfter the way she helped us out with the _brioche_ we could scarcely sayless. 

"Perhaps, " she said, "you may be able to tell me when I will be able toget a train to----?"

She mentioned one of those towns of which the English have takentemporary possession, turning the hotels into hospitals, to the greatprofit of the original proprietors. 

"Certainly, " said Thompson. "There's a train at 9 p. M. But you'll betravelling all night in that. If I were you I'd stay here till to-morrowmorning and then----"

"Can't, " said the girl. "Properly speaking I'm due back to-day; but Imissed the early train this morning and only got here an hour ago. Theboat was horribly late. "

"Ah, " said Thompson, "you're coming back after leave, I suppose. "

The girl sighed faintly. 

"Yes. " she said, "but I've had a fortnight's leave; I can't complain. "

"I'll just write down that train for you, " said Thompson. 

He scribbled 9 p. M. On a piece of paper and carried it over to the girl. It seemed to me an unnecessary thing to do. Nine is a simple number, easy to remember. Some thought of the same kind occurred to the girl. She looked at Thompson, first with some surprise, and then, I thought, rather coldly. She was evidently not inclined to accept any furtherfriendly offers from Thompson. He did not seem in the least abashed evenwhen she turned her shoulder to us and looked the other way. 

"Have you seen the cathedral here?" said Thompson. 

The girl made no answer. 

"I really think, " said Thompson, "that you ought to pay a visit to thecathedral. You'll like it, you really will. And you've got hours beforeyou. I don't see how you can fill in the time if you don't go to thecathedral. "

"Thank you, " said the girl without turning round. 

"I'm not going there, " said Thompson, "or I'd offer to show you the way. But you can't miss it. You can see the spire from the window. It's thefinest specimen of early Gothic in the north of France. The glass issuperb. There's an altar piece by Raphael or Botticelli, I forget which. The screen is late Italian Renaissance, and there's a tomb in the westtransept which is supposed to be that of the Venerable Bede. "

The girl got up and walked out of the room. I was not surprised. 

"Thompson, " I said, "what do you mean by behaving like a cad? Any onecould see that she is a nice girl; a lady, not that sort at all. "

Thompson grinned. 

"And as for that rigmarole of yours about the cathedral--what thedevil do you know about Italian Renaissance, or Botticelli or earlyGothic? I never heard such rot in my life. As a matter of fact I'vealways heard that the glass in this cathedral is poor. "

"All the same, " said Thompson, "if she goes there she'll be pleased. She'll find something she'll like a great deal better than stainedglass. "

"As for the Venerable Bede, " I said, "he was buried in Oxford if hewas buried anywhere, and I don't know that he was. He might have beencremated, or minced up by high explosives so that they couldn't buryhim. "

"I thought I recognized her, " said Thompson, "I went over to her tableand had a good look to make sure. "

"Don't pretend you know her, " I said "She certainly didn't know you. "

"I looked at her photograph five times at least last night while youwere asleep. "

I thought this over for a minute. Then I said:

"You don't mean to tell me that she's the girl that boy is engaged to bemarried to?"

"The exact same girl, " said Thompson. "I couldn't be mistaken. "

I meditated on the situation. 

"I hope, " I said, "that he won't have left the cathedral before she getsthere. "

"No fear, " said Thompson, "he's a most conscientious boy. Having startedout to do that cathedral he'll look at every stone of it before heleaves. He'll be there for hours yet. What I'm afraid of is that shewon't go there. "

"She started in the right direction, " I said "I saw her out of thewindow. "

"I did my best anyhow, " said Thompson. "I told her I wasn't going there. She didn't like me. I could see that. If I'd let her think I was goingto the cathedral she'd have marched straight off to the station and satin the Ladies' Waiting-room till her train started. "

The girl, it appeared, did visit the cathedral and the boy was there. Hewas waiting for us on the platform at the railway station at half-pastnine. He talked half the night to Thompson about his wonderful strokeof luck. Just as I dropped off to sleep I heard Thompson quotingShakespeare. It was, to the best of my belief, the only time in his lifethat Thompson ever did quote Shakespeare. 

 "Journeys end in lovers' meeting, Every wise man's son doth know, "

he said. 

VII~~ HIS GIRL

There were thirty or forty officers in the lounge of the hotel, allcondemned, as I was, to spend the greater part of the day there. Somemen have better luck. It was the fourth time I had been held up in thiswretched place on my way back to France after leave. Dragged out of ourbeds at an unreasonable hour, crammed into a train at Victoria, rusheddown to an embarkation port as if the fate of the empire depended on ourgetting there without a minute's delay, we find, when we get out of thetrain, that the steamer will not start for three hours, four hours, on this occasion six hours. We are compelled to sit about in an hotel, desolate and disgusted, when we might have been comfortable in London. 

I looked round to see if there were anyone I wanted to talk to. Therewere--I had seen them at Victoria--three or four men whom I knewslightly, but I had no particular wish to spend hours with any one ofthem. I had just decided to go out for a walk by myself when I felt aslap on my shoulder. I turned and saw Daintree. I was uncommonly gladto see him. Daintree and I were friends before the war and I have alwaysfound him an amusing companion. He greeted me heartily. 

"Great luck, " he said, "running into you like this. I don't see a singleother man I know in the whole crowd. And any way I particularly wantedto talk to you. I've got a story to tell you. "

We secured a corner and two comfortable chairs. I lit a pipe and waited. Daintree is a wonderful man for picking up stories. The most unusualthings happen to him and he gets mixed up in far more adventures thananyone else I know. And he likes telling stories. Usually, the men whohave stories to tell will not talk, and the men who like talking havenothing interesting to tell. Daintree is exceptional. 

"What is it this time?" I asked. "What journalists call a 'sob story, 'or is it meant to be humorous?"

"I should call it a kind of joke, " said Daintree; "but my wife says it'sthe most pathetic thing she's ever heard. It makes her cry even to thinkof it You can take it either way. I'll be interested to see how you dotake it. I was thinking of writing it to you, 'for your information andnecessary action, please. ' My wife wanted me to, but it's too long fora letter. Besides, I don't see what you or anyone else could possiblydo in the matter. You may give advice--that's what my wife expects ofyou--but there's really no advice to give. However, you can tell me howit strikes you. That's what I want to know, whether you agree with mywife or with me. You know Simcox, don't you, or do you? I forget. "

"Simcox?" I said. "Is that a tall, cadaverous man in the Wessex? Rathermournful looking?"

"That's the man. Came home from a remote corner of the Argentine, orsomewhere like that, early in the war, and got a commission. He's acaptain now. "

"I met him, " I said, "down Albert way, shortly before the push lastyear. I can't say I knew him. He seemed to me rather a difficult kind ofman to know. "

"So my wife says, " said Daintree. "He's older than most of us, forone thing, and has spent twenty years all by himself herding sheepor branding bullocks, or whatever it is they do out in those places. Naturally he'd rather lost touch with life at home and found itdifficult to fit himself in; especially with a lot of boys straightfrom the 'Varsities or school. They were mostly boys in his battalion. Anyhow, he seems to have been a bit morose, but he did his job all rightin the regiment and was recommended for the M. C. . He got knocked out inthe Somme push and jolly nearly lost a leg. They saved it in the end andsent him down to my place to convalesce. "

Daintree owns a very nice place in the Midlands. In the old days it wasone of the pleasantest houses I know to stay in. Daintree himself wasa capital host and his wife is a charming woman. The house is aconvalescent home for officers now, and Mrs. Daintree, with the help ofthree nurses, runs it. Daintree pretends to regard this as a grievance, and says it was all his wife's doing, though he was just as keen on theplace as she was. 

"Damned nuisance, " he said, "finding the place full of boys riotingwhen I get home on leave. And it's full up now--twelve of them, noless. There's hardly a spot in the house I can call my own, and they'vespoiled the little lake I made at the bottom of the lawn. That young assPat Singleton started what he called boat-races on it----"

"Oh, Pat Singleton's there?" I said. "I knew; he'd been wounded, but Ididn't hear he'd been sent to your place. "

"Pat Singleton's always everywhere, " said Daintree. "I've never comeacross a place where he wasn't, and he's a devil for mischief. Remind meafterwards to tell you about the trick he played on the principal nurse, a Scotchwoman with a perfectly terrific sense of her own dignity, "Daintree chuckled. 

"If you'd rather tell me that story, " I said, "instead of the one aboutSimcox, I'd just as soon have it. In fact, I'd prefer it. Sob storiesare always trying. "

"But I'm not sure that the Simcox one is a sob story, though there's acertain amount of slosh in it. Anyhow, I've got to tell it to you, formy wife says you're the only man she knows who can advise what ought tobe done. "

"All right, " I said, "but Pat Singleton's escapades always amuse me. I'dlike to hear about his making an apple-pie bed for that nurse. "

Daintree chuckled again, and I gathered from the expression of his facethat the nurse had endured something worse than an apple-pie bed. 

"Or about the boat-races, " I said. "I didn't know you had anything whichfloated on that lake of yours. "

"I haven't, " said Daintree, "except the kind of wooden box in which thegardener goes out to clear away the duck-weed. However, Pat Singletoncomes into the Simcox story in the end. It's really about him that mywife wants your advice. "

"No one, " I said, "can give advice about Pat Singleton. "

"Knowing the sort of man Simcox is, " said Daintree, "you'll understandthat he was rather out of it at first in a-house full of boys just outof hospital and jolly glad to have a chance of running about a bit. PatSingleton wasn't there when Simcox arrived. But the others were nearlyas bad; silly jokes from morning to night and an infernal row alwaysgoing on. My wife likes that sort of thing, fortunately. "

"Simcox, I suppose, just sat by himself in a corner of the veranda andglowered?"

"Exactly. And at first my wife could do nothing with him. In the end, ofcourse----"

"In the end, " I said, "she persuaded him to tell her his inmost secretsand to confide to her the tragedy of his soul. That's just what shewould do. "

Mrs. Daintree is a very kind and sympathetic lady. When she talks to meI feel ready to tell her anything. A man like Simcox, shy, reserved, andwholly unaccustomed to charming ladies, would succumb to her easily andpour out a love story or anything else he happened to have on his chestat the time. 

"You see, " said Daintree, "his leg was pretty stiff and he couldn'tget about much, even if he'd wanted to. There was nothing for him to doexcept sit in a deck-chair. My wife felt it her duty to talk to him agood deal. "

Daintree seemed to be making excuses for Mrs. Daintree and Simcox. Theywere unnecessary. Mrs. Daintree would have got his story out of him ifshe thought he was really in need of sympathy, whether he sat in a chairall day or was able to row races in the lake in the gardener's punt. 

"Anyhow, " said Daintree, "what he told her--he told it to me afterwards, so there's no secret about it--was this: He got hit in the leg during anadvance through one of those woods north of the Somme, Mametz, I think. It was a beastly place. Our fellows had been in there two days beforeand had to clear out again. Then Simcox's lot went in--you know the sortof thing it was?"

I nodded. 

"Shell holes, and splintered tree trunks, " I said. "Machine-gunsenfilading you, and H. E. Bursting promiscuous. I know. "

"Well, Sirmcox' fellows went in all right, and stayed there for a while. Simcox says he remembers noticing that the ground was strewed withdébris left by the Germans when they cleared out, and by our fellowsafterwards. Equipment, rifles and all the rest of it lying about, aswell as other things--pretty ghastly things. "

"You needn't go into details, " I said. "I can guess. "

"I'm only telling you this, " said Daintree, "because all the stuff lyingabout seems to have interested Simcox. It's odd the feelings men have atthese times. Simcox says the thing he chiefly wanted to do was to tidyup. He had a kind of strong desire to pick things up and put themaway somewhere. Of course he couldn't; but he did pick up one thing, a cigarette case. He showed it to me. It was one of those long-shaped, flat white metal cases which fellows carry because they hold aboutthirty cigarettes. Simcox says he doesn't know why he picked it up. Hedidn't want it in the least. He just saw it lying there on the groundand stuffed it into his pocket Almost immediately after that he was hit. Bit of shrapnel under the knee. "

"I remember hearing about that business, " I said. "We were driven outagain, weren't we?"

"Exactly. And Simcox was left behind. He couldn't walk, of course. Buthe crawled into a shell hole, and there he lay. Well, for the next twodays that wood wasn't healthy for either side. The Germans couldn'tget back, because we were sprinkling the whole place with shrapnel. Wecouldn't advance for similar reasons. Simcox just lay in his shell hole. He tied up his leg somehow. He had some brandy in a flask as well as hisiron rations. But he hadn't much tobacco. There were only two cigarettesin his own case. However, he had the other case, the one he picked up. There were nearly twenty in it Also there was--I say, at this point thestory gets sloppy. "

"Never mind, " I said. "Go on. What else was in the cigarette case? Afarewell letter to a loving wife? Love to little Willie and a text ofScripture?"

"Not so bad as that. A photo of a girl. He showed it to me when he toldme the story. "

"Good looking girl?"

"Very. Large eyes--sort of tender, you know, and appealing; and agentle, innocent face, and a mouth----"

"I suppose, " I said, "that these raptures are necessary if I'm tounderstand the story. Otherwise, you may skip them. "

"Can't possibly skip them, " said Daintree. "The whole point ofthe story depends on your realizing the sort of girl she was. Pathetic--that's the word I want. Looked at you out of the photo as ifshe was a poor, lonely, but uncommonly fetching little thing, who wanteda strong, true man to shelter her from the evil world. She was got upin some sort of fancy dress which kind of heightened the effect. I don'taltogether profess to understand what happened, though my wife says shedoes. But Simcox in a sort of way fell in love with her. That's not theway he put it He didn't feel that she was just an ordinary girl--thesort one falls in love with. She was--well, he didn't think of her asflesh and blood--more a kind of vision--spiritual, you know. "

"Angel?" I said. 

"That sort of thing. You know. That was the idea that gripped Simcoxwhile he lay there in the shell hole. Stars came out at night and Simcoxfelt that she was looking down at him. In the day he used to lie andgaze at her. When he thought it was all up with him and that he couldn'tlive, he seemed to hear her voice--I say, you ought to hear mywife telling this part of the story. Simcox wouldn't tell it to me, naturally; but he seems to have enlarged on it a good deal to her. He says that only for that photo he'd have given in and just died. Idaresay he wouldn't really, but he thinks he would. Anyhow, he didn't Hestuck it out and his leg didn't hurt nearly as much as he expected. Heattributes that to the influence of this--this----"

"Angel visitant?" I said. 

"You can call her an angel if you like, " said Daintree. 

"This, " I said, "seems to me a pure sob story. If there's any other partless harrowing, I wish you'd hurry up and get to it. "

"All right, " said Daintree. "I'll cut out the rest of his experiencesin that shell hole, though, mind you, they're rather interesting andfrightfully poetic the way my wife tells them. After two days ourfellows got back into the wood and kept it. The stretcher-bearers foundSimcox in his hole and they lugged him down to a Casualty ClearingStation. From that he went to a hospital--the usual round, He had apretty bad time, first over there, and then, when they could move him, in London. By degrees he got more sane about the photo. He stoppedthinking she was any kind of spirit and took to regarding her just asa girl, though a very exceptional kind of girl, of course. He washopelessly in love with her. Do you think a man really could fall inlove with a photo?"

"Simcox did, " I said, "so we needn't discuss that point. "

"The chances were, of course, " said Daintree, "that she was some otherfellow's girl, possibly some other fellow's wife. But Simcox didn'tcare. He was too far gone to care for anything except to get that girl. Those morose, shy men are frightfully hard hit in that sort of way, I'mtold. That's what my wife says, anyhow. They get it much worse than wedo when they do get it. Simcox would have dragged that girl out ofthe arms of an archbishop if that was where he found her. Of course hecouldn't go hunting her over England while he was in hospital with a badleg; but he made up his mind to find out who she was and where shelived as soon as he was well enough to go about He'd very little to goon--practically nothing. The photo had been cut down so as to fit intothe cigarette case, so that there wasn't even a photographer's name onit. "

"He might have advertised, " I said. "There are papers which go in forthat sort of thing, publish rows of reproductions of photographs 'Foundon the battle-field, 'with requests for identification. "

"My wife thought of that, " said Daintree, "but Simcox didn't seemto take to the idea. He said the photo was too sacred a thing to bereproduced in a paper. My own idea is that he was afraid of any kindof publicity. You see, the other fellow might turn up--the fellow whoreally had a right to the girl. "

"How the deuce did he propose to find her?"

"I don't know. He told my wife some rotten yarn about instinct guidinghim to her; said he felt sure that the strength of his great love wouldsomehow lead him to her side. He didn't say that to me, couldn't, youknow. But it's wonderful what a fellow will say to a woman, if she'ssympathetic, and my wife is. Still, even so, he must be more or lessmad to think a thing like that. Mad about the girl. He's sane enough inevery other way. "

"He can't be so mad as that, " I said. "Just fancy going out into afield--I suppose that's the way you'd do it--and hanging about untilyour great love set you strolling off either to the right or to theleft. No man, however mad, could expect to come on a girl that way--noone particular girl, I mean. Of course you'd meet several girlswhichever way you went. Couldn't help it. The world's full of girls. "

"I don't know what he meant, " said Daintree, "but my wife sympathizedwith him and seemed to think he'd pull it off in the end. At first hewas a bit shy of letting her see the photo; but when he saw she was assympathetic as all that he showed it to her. Well, the moment she sawit, she felt that she knew the face. "

"That was a stroke of luck for Simcox. "

"No it wasn't, " said Daintree, "for my wife couldn't put a name to thegirl. She was sure she had seen her somewhere, knew her quite well, infact, but simply couldn't fix her. Funny thing, but it was exactly thesame when they showed me the photo. At the first glance I said rightaway that I knew her. Then I found I couldn't say exactly who she was. The more I looked the more certain I was that I'd seen her somewhere, her or someone very like her. And it wasn't a commonplace face by anymeans. Poor Simcox kept begging us to think. My wife went over ourvisitors' book--we've kept one of those silly things for years--butthere wasn't a name in it which we couldn't account for. I got out allthe old albums of snapshots and amateur photos in the house. You knowthe way those things accumulate; groups of all sorts. But we couldn'tfind the girl. And yet both my wife and I were sure we'd met her. Thenone morning Simcox burst into my wife's little sitting-room--a placenone of the convalescents have any right to go. He was in a fierce stateof excitement. Said that an officer who'd arrived the night before wasexactly like the photo and that the girl must be his sister or cousin, or something. The only officer who came that night was--you'd neverguess!--Pat Singleton. "

"Pat, " I said, "though a young devil, is cheerful, and I never saw himanything but self-confident I can't imagine a girl such as you describedbearing the faintest resemblance to that boy. You said that she was akind of die-away, pathetic, appealing angel. Now Pat----"

"I know, " said Daintree. "All the same, the likeness was there. Themoment I looked at the photo with Pat in my mind I knew why I thought Irecognized it My wife said the same thing. "

"But Pat Singleton hasn't any sisters, " I said. 

"No, he hasn't He hasn't even a first cousin anything like the age ofthe girl in the photo. I knew all the Singletons well, have for years. But Simcox insisted his girl must be some relation of Pat's, and inthe end I promised to ask the boy. In the first place, if she was arelation, it seemed an impudent sort of thing to do, and if she wasn't, Pat would be sure to make up some infernal story about me and a girl andtell it all over the place. However, my wife egged me on and poor Simcoxwas so frightfully keen that I promised. 

"Well, I sent for Pat Singleton next morning. He was a little subdued atfirst, as much subdued as I've ever seen him. He thought I was going torag him about the spoof he'd played off on the nurse. He did thatbefore he was twelve hours in the house. Remind me to tell you aboutit afterwards. I don't wonder he looked piano. She'd been going forhim herself and that woman is a real terror. However, he cheered upthe moment I showed him the photo of the girl. He asked me first of allwhere the devil I'd got it. Said he'd lost it somewhere before he waswounded. "

"Oh, it was his, then?" I said. 

"Yes, " said Daintree, grinning, "it was his. He was particularly anxiousto know how I came by it. I didn't tell him, of course. Couldn't giveSimcox away, you know. Then Pat began to cheek me. Asked if I'd fallenin love with the girl and what my wife would say when he told her. Saidhe carried the photo about with him and showed it to fellows just towatch them falling in love with her. It seems that nine men out of tenadmired her greatly. He asked me if I didn't think she was the prettiestgirl I'd ever seen, and that I wasn't the first man by any means whowanted her name and address. He grinned in a most offensive way and saidthat he never gave away that girl's name to anyone; that I ought to knowbetter than to go running after a nice, innocent little thing like thatwho wouldn't know how to take care of herself. I wasn't going to standmuch of that sort of talk from Pat Singleton. I told him straight thatif he didn't tell me that girl's name and where she lived I'd makethings hot for him. I threatened to report the little game he'd hadwith the nurse and that if I did he'd be court-martialled. I don't knowwhether a man could be court-martialled for cheeking a nurse, but thethreat had a good effect on Pat He really was a bit afraid of thatwoman. I don't wonder, though it's the first time I've ever known himafraid of anyone. "

Daintree paused and chuckled horribly. 

"Well, " I said, "who was the girl?"

"Haven't you tumbled to it yet?" said Daintree. 

"No. Do I know her?"

"I can't say you exactly know her, " said Daintree. "You know _him_. Itwas a photo of Pat himself dressed up as the Sleeping Beauty, or Fatima, or some such person in a pantomime they did down at the base lastChristmas when he was there. The young devil carried the thing aboutwith him so as to play off his silly spoof on every fellow he met I mustsay he made a damned pretty girl. "

"Good Lord!" I said. "And how did Simcox take it?"

"Simcox hasn't been told--yet, " said Daintree. "That's just what my wifewants your advice about You see it's an awkward situation. "

"Very, " I said. 

"If we tell him, " said Daintree, "he'll probably try to kill PatSingleton, and that would lead to a lot of trouble. On the other hand, if we don't tell him he'll spend the rest of his life roaming about theworld looking for a girl who doesn't exist, and never did. It seems apity to let that happen. "

"My idea, " I said, "would be to get another girl, not necessarily likethe photo, but the same type, appealing and pathetic and all that. He'dprobably take to her after a time. "

"I suggested that, " said Daintree, "but my wife simply won't hear of it. She says the story as it stands is a great romance and that it would beutterly spoiled if Simcox switched off after another girl. I can't seethat, can you?"

"In a case like this, " I said, "when the original girl wasn't a girl atall----"

"Exactly, " said Daintree, "but when I say that my wife brings up theAngel in the Shell Hole part of the story and says that a great romanceis its own reward. "

"I don't know what to advise, " I said. 

"I didn't think you would, " said Daintree, "though my wife insisted thatyou'd be able to suggest something. But you can tell me what you thinkof the story. That's what I really want to get out of you. Is it a SobStory or just a rather unusual spoof?"

"That, " I said, "depends entirely whether you look at it from Simcox'point of view or Pat Singleton's. "

VIII ~~ SIR GALAHAD

The order, long expected and eagerly desired, came at last. Thebattalion moved out from dusty and crowded barracks to a camp in thewilderness. Lieutenant Dalton, a cheerful boy who had been taught HolyScripture in his childhood, wrote to his mother that the new camp was"Somewhere in the wilderness beyond Jordan between the river of Egyptand the great sea. " This description of the situation was so entirelyinaccurate that the Censor allowed it to pass without complaint. OldMrs. Dalton told her friends that her son was living under the shadowof Mount Sinai. He was, in fact, nowhere near either Jordan or Sinai. Hewas some miles east of the Suez Canal. For a week or so officers and menrejoiced in their new quarters. There was plenty of elbow room; nomore of the overcrowding they had suffered since they landed. They had, indeed, miles of totally unoccupied desert at their disposal. Eachtent might have stood in its own private grounds, three acres or so inextent, if that had not been felt by the colonel to be an inconvenientarrangement. There was also--and this particularly pleased thebattalion--the prospect of a fight with the Turks. Everyone believedwhen the move was made that a battle was imminent, and the battalion, which had no experience of fighting, was most anxious to show what itcould do. 

After awhile the enthusiasm for the new camp began to fade. The Turksdid not put in an appearance, and life was as peaceful as it had been inthe English camp where the battalion was trained. The situation of thecamp, though roomy, was not exciting. Both officers and men began tofind existence exceedingly dull. Lieutenant Dalton, who at this timewrote long letters to his mother, told her that he understood at lastwhy the Children of Israel were so desperately anxious to get backto Egypt and were inclined to rag Moses about the want of melons andcucumbers. At the end of the month the whole battalion was bored toexasperation. 

The desert which stretched in front of the camp was intolerably flat Thesun rose with pitiless regularity, shone with a steady glare for a greatmany hours, and then set. That was all that ever happened. The comingof a cloud into the sky would have been greeted with cheers. No cloudappeared A sandstorm, however disagreeable, would have been welcomed asa change. The sand stayed quietly where it was. The men tried football, and gave it up because of the blistering heat. They played "House" untileven the excitement of that mild gamble exhausted itself. No other formof amusement suggested itself. There was not even any work to do. Hadthe battalion belonged to the Brigade of Guards it would no doubt havegone on doing barrack-square drill every day and all day long until themen learned to move like parts of a machine. But this was a Territorialbattalion, and the colonel held reasonable views about modern warfare. The value of drill, a mechanical business, was in his opinion easilyexaggerated. Had the battalion belonged to an Irish regiment therewould probably have been several interesting fights and some means ofobtaining whisky would have been devised. In such ways the men wouldhave escaped the curse of monotony, and the officers would have beenkept busy in the orderly room. But this battalion came from theEnglish Midlands. The men did not want to fight each other, and had nooverpowering desire to get drunk. When the morning parades wereover they lay in their tents and grumbled peacefully. Under suchcircumstances tempers often wear thin, and a habit of bickering takespossession of a mess. It is greatly to the credit of everyone concernedthat there was no sign of bad temper among the officers of thebattalion. The colonel lived a good deal by himself in his tent, but wasalways quietly good-humoured. Lieutenant Dalton, an incurably merry boy, kept the other subalterns cheerful. Only Captain Maitland was inclinedto complain a little, and he had a special grievance, an excuse whichjustified a certain amount of grumbling. He slept badly at night, andliked to read a book of some sort after he went to bed. The mess hadoriginally possessed an excellent supply of books, some hundred volumesof the most varied kind supplied by the Camps Libraries' Association athome. Unfortunately, almost all the books were left behind when themove was made. Only three volumes were to be found in the new camp--onenovel, a treatise on the culture of apple trees, and Mallory's "MorteD'Arthur. "

Captain Maitland blamed the chaplain for the loss. 

"You ought to have looked after those books, padre, " he said. "It's apadre's business to look after books. "

The Rev. John Haddingly, C. F. , was a gentle little man, liked by theofficers because he was entirely unassuming, and popular with the menbecause he was always ready to help them. He accepted the whole blamefor the loss of the books without an attempt to defend himself. 

"I'm awfully sorry, Maitland, " he said. "I ought to have seen to thosebooks. I did look after the Prayer Books. They're here all right; atleast most of them are. "

"Prayer Books!" said Maitland. "If they were even whole Prayer Books!But those little yellow tracts of yours! They haven't even got theThirty-Nine Articles in them. If they were pukka Prayer Books I'd borrowone and try to read it. I expect there are lots of interesting thingsin the small print parts of the Prayer Book, the parts you padres neverread out. But what's the good of the books you have? Nothing in them butwhat we all know off by heart. "

Haddingly sighed. He was painfully conscious of the shortcomings of theField Service Books supplied for the use of the troops. Dalton came tohis defence. 

"Don't strafe the padre, " he said. "He brought along a church, an entirechurch. Is there another padre in the whole Army who could have got achurch to a place like this?"

Dalton's almost incredible statement was literally true. Haddinglyhad succeeded, contrary to all regulations, in bringing with him fromEngland a corrugated iron church. It was quite a small one, it folded upand could be packed flat When unpacked and erected it was undeniablya church. It had a large cross at one end of it outside. Inside itwas furnished with an altar, complete with cross and candlesticks, acollapsible harmonium and a number of benches. Chaplains have certainlyno right to load up troopships with churches, but Haddingly had somehowgot his to Egypt. By what blandishments the transport officer had beeninduced to drag the thing out into the desert beyond the canal no oneknew. Haddingly was one of those uncomplainingly meek men who neverstand up for themselves. It is a curious fact, but it is a fact, thata really helpless person gets things done for him which the mostaggressive and masterful men cannot accomplish. The success in life ofwomen of the "clinging" kind is an illustration of this law. 

Haddingly smiled with joy at the mention of his church. It stood, securely bolted together, a little outside the camp. No one, the crossbeing disproportionately large, could possibly mistake it for anythingbut a church. In front of it was a notice board, a nice black noticeboard with a suggestion of Gothic architecture about it. On the board, in bright white letters, was a list of services and the name of thechurch--St John in the Wilderness. 

Originally, before the move into the desert, it had been simply St Johnthe Evangelist, but Haddingly felt that the new circumstances demandeda change of dedication. Everyone, from the colonel down to the humblestprivate, was secretly proud of the church. The possession of such athing gave a certain distinction to the battalion. Haddingly was a gooddeal chaffed about it; but the building was in a fair way to become aregimental mascot "I'm not strafing the padre, " said Captain Maitland, "but I wish we had a few of the books we left behind. "

"To listen to you talking, " said Dalton, "anyone would think you weresome kind of literary swell--Hall Came and Wordsworth rolled into one, whereas we all know that the only thing you take an interest in ishorses. " Captain Maitland was very far from being a literary swell orclaiming any such title. The books he really liked, the only books heread when he had a free choice, were sporting stories with a strongracing and betting interest But in camp in the wilderness no sportingstories were obtainable. The one novel which remained to the mess dealtwith the sex problem, a subject originally profoundly uninteresting toMaitland, who had a healthy mind He read it, however, as a remedy forinsomnia. It proved effective. A couple of chapters sent him to sleepevery night, so the book lasted a good while. 

Every morning at breakfast Maitland used to propound the problems raisedby the chapters which he had read the night before. The mess gotinto the way of holding informal debates on the divorce laws. When hefinished the book, Maitland declared that he intended to devote himselfto Eugenics and the more enlightened kind of social reform as soon asthe war was over. 

"I never thought of it before, " he said, "but I can see now that thefuture of the Empire really depends on the proper legislation for childwelfare, on ante-natal clinic, and the abolition of the old empiricmethods of marriage. "

"Wait till after I'm married before you begin, " said Dalton. 

Haddingly was a little pained. He said things about the sanctity ofmarriage and the family as a divine institution. No one else tookMaitland seriously. It was felt that when the war came to an end--ifit ever did--he would go back to horse-racing and leave the scientificaspects of marriage in decent obscurity. 

When he had finished the novel he took the book on apple trees to bedwith him. He became, after a short time, interested in that subject. Heannounced that when the war was over he intended to buy a small place inDevonshire and go in for orchards. 

"Apple growing, " he said, "is just exactly the peaceable, shady kind oflife a man wants after being stuck down in a desert like this. "

"With your taste for the turf, " said Dalton, "you'll get into a shadykind of life all right, whether you plant apple trees or not. "

Dalton was an irreverent boy. Haddingly was greatly pleased at thethought of Maitland sitting innocently under an apple tree. 

The turn of Mallory came next Maitland left it for the last because theprint was very small and the only light in his tent was a feeble candle. When he got fairly started in the book he became profoundly interested, and the other members of the mess were treated at breakfast time to agood deal of information about medieval warfare. 

"As far as I can make out, " Maitland said, "every officer in those dayswas knighted as soon as he got his commission. "

"Jolly good idea, " said Dalton. "I should buck about like anything ifthey made me a K. C. B. "

"You wouldn't have been an officer or a knight, " said Maitland. "You'dhave been the court fool. You've no idea whatever of chivalry. "

Like most simple men who read very little, Maitland took the books hedid read seriously and was greatly influenced by them. The apple treetreatise made him want to be a gardener. A slow and careful study ofMallory filled him with a profound admiration for medieval romance. 

"The reason modern war is such a sordid business, " he said, "is thatwe've lost the idea of chivalry. "

"Chivalry is all very well, " said Dalton, "if there's anyone to chivalabout. I haven't read much about those old knights of yours, Maitland;but so far as I can make out from what you tell us they were alwayscoming across damsels, fair, distressed, and otherwise fetching. Now, I haven't seen a damsel since I left England. How the deuce can I bechivalrous? I defy anyone, even that Lancelot blighter of yours, to gointo raptures about the old hag you turned out of the camp yesterday forselling rotten dates to the men. "

Dalton was not the only member of the mess who made jokes about theknights of King Arthur's fellowship. But Maitland went on reading outselected passages from Mallory, and there is no doubt that everyone, even Dalton, became interested. Haddingly, the padre, made no attempt toconceal the fact that he was profoundly influenced. 

He had always been proud of his church, but had hitherto been contentto use it in the normal way for parade services on Sunday morning. Theservices were undeniably popular. The men enjoyed singing hymns, andthey listened patiently to the sermons because they liked Haddingly. Theofficers, who also liked Haddingly, attended the Sunday morning serviceswith great regularity. Dalton, though he preferred playing rag-time onthe piano, accompanied the hymns on the harmonium. 

Haddingly was greatly moved by Maitland's account of the medievalspirit. He took to spending half an hour in the church every morningbefore breakfast Nobody knew what he did there. The officers, throughfeelings of delicacy, never asked him questions about these newdevotions. The men, who were getting to know and like Haddingly betterand better as time went on, regarded his daily visits to the church asproof that their padre was one who knew his job and did it thoroughly. 

One morning--the mess had then been discussing medieval chivalry forabout a fortnight--Maitland read out a passage from Mallory about avisit paid by Sir Galahad to a lonely chapel among the mountains, "wherehe found nobody at all for all was desolate. " Haddingly had just spenthis lonely half hour in the church of St John in the Wilderness. Hesighed. He found nobody there in the mornings, and could not helpwishing that the battalion contained a Galahad. Dalton felt thatsomething must be done to preserve the credit of the mess and thedignity of English manhood. He felt sure that sentiment about desolatechapels was an unwholesome thing. He scoffed:

"All very well for Gallipot, " he said, "but----"

"Galahad, " said Maitland. 

"Galahad, or Gallipot, or Golly-wog, " said Dalton. "If a man has a sillyname like that, it doesn't matter how you spell it. The point is that itwould be simply ridiculous to attempt that sort of thing now. Suppose, for instance---- I put it to you, padre. Suppose you saw Maitlandmounted on one of the transport gee-gees trotting tap to that tincathedral of yours--on a week-day, mind! I'm not talking about Sundays. Suppose he got down and went inside all by himself, what would youthink, padre? There's only one thing you could think, that Maitland hadbeen drinking. "

"Sir Galahad, " said Maitland, "went in to say his prayers. He was on hisway to a battle. They didn't have to wait months and months for a battlein those days. They had a scrap of some sort about once a week. "

He sighed. The Turks had failed to do what was expected of them, andlife in the camp was intolerably dull. 

He looked at Haddingly. It was plainly a padre's duty to support aspiritual and romantic view of life against the profane jibes of Dalton. Haddingly spoke judicially. 

"The general tone of society in those days, " he said, "seems to havebeen very different from what it is now. Men had much less difficulty ingiving expression to their emotions. No doubt we still feel much as theydid, but----"

Haddingly became aware that no one was listening to him. The attentionof everyone at the table was attracted by something else. The men satstiffly, listening intently. Haddingly heard a faint, distant hummingsound. It grew louder. 

"Jiminy!" said Dalton, "an aeroplane!"

The breakfast table was laid in the open air outside the mess tent Themen rose from their seats and stared in the direction of the comingsound. It was the first time that an aeroplane had approached thecamp in the desert. Its coming was an intensely exciting event, anunmistakable evidence of activity somewhere; surely a sign that activityeverywhere might be expected. 

The sound increased in volume. The machine appeared, a distant speck inthe clear sky. It grew rapidly larger, flying fast. It was seen to be abiplane. It passed directly over the camp, flying so low that the headof the pilot was plainly visible. In a few minutes it passed from sight. The hum of its engines grew fainter. But till the sound became inaudibleno one spoke. 

Then a babble of inquiry and speculation broke out Where was the thinggoing? What was it doing? What did its sudden swift voyage mean? Forthe rest of the day the camp was less sleepy than usual. Men everywherediscussed the aeroplane. Dalton was not the only one who envied themembers of the Flying Corps. It seemed a very desirable thing to beable to rush through the air over unknown deserts; to have the chanceof seeing strange and thrilling things, Arab encampments, greenoases, mirages, caravans and camels; to drop bombs perhaps on Syrianfortresses; to estimate the numbers of Turkish columns on the march, toreckon their strength in artillery; to take desperate risks; to swerveand dart amid clouds of bursting shrapnel. How much more gloriouslyexciting such a life than that of men baking slowly in the monotony of adesert camp. 

Maitland, stimulated by his reading to an unnatural effort ofimagination, recognized in the men of the Flying Corps the truesuccessors of Mallory's adventurous knight-errants. For them war stillcontained romance. Chivalry was still possible. Haddingly caught thethought and expanded it Knights of old had this wonderful spirit, because to them the forests through which they roamed were unknownwastes, where all strange things might be expected. Then when all theland became familiar, mapped, intersected with roads, covered thick withtowns, sailors inherited the spirit of romance. Afterwards all the seaswere charted, policed, and ships went to and fro on ocean highways. Theromance of adventure was lost to seamen, lost to the world, until theairmen came and found it again by venturing on new ways. 

In the evening the aeroplane returned. Once more its engines were heard. Once more it appeared, a speck, a shape, a recognizable thing. But thistime it did not pass away. On reaching camp it circled twice, and then, with a long swift glide, took the ground outside the camp a few yardsbeyond Haddingly's church of St. John in the Wilderness. The pilotstepped out of the machine. 

"Good man, " said Dalton. "Friendly of him dropping in on us like this. Must want a drink after that fly. Eight hours at least. I'll go andbring him along to the mess. Hope he'll tell us what he's been doing. Wonder if the Turks potted at him. "

The pilot left his machine. He walked stiffly, like a man with crampedlimbs, towards the camp. 

"Something wrong with the engine, perhaps, " said Dalton. "Or he's shortof petrol. I'll fetch him along. A whisky and soda in a big tumbler isthe thing for him. I dare say he'll stay for dinner. "

He started and walked quickly towards the machine. The airman, approaching the camp, reached the church. Instead of passing it hestopped, opened the door, and went in. Dalton paused and looked back. 

"Must have mistaken your tin cathedral for the mess, padre, " he said. "I'll run on and fetch him out. "

"If he's made a mistake, " said Haddingly, "he'll find it out for himselfand come out without your fetching him. "

Dalton stood still. His eyes were on the door of the church. Maitlandand Haddingly were gazing at it too. The other officers, gathered in agroup outside the mess tent, stood in silence, staring at the church. Itseemed as if hours passed. In fact, nearly half an hour went by beforethe door of the church opened and the airman came out. He turned hisback on the camp and went towards his machine. Neither Dalton nor anyoneelse made an attempt to overtake him. The noise of the engine was heardagain. The machine raced a few yards along the ground and then rose insteep flight. It passed across the camp and sped westwards, its shapesharply outlined for a minute against the light of the setting sun. Thenit disappeared. 

Maitland took Haddingly by the arm and led him to his tent The two mensat down together on the camp bedstead. Maitland opened Mallory's "Morted'Arthur, " and read aloud:

"Then Sir Galahad came unto a mountain, where he found an old chapel, and found there nobody, for all was desolate, and there he kneeledbefore the altar and besought of God wholesome counsel. "

"I suppose it was just that, " said Haddingly. 

Dalton put his head into the tent. 

"I thought I'd find you here, " he said. "I just wanted to ask thepadre something. Was that Sir Golliwog come to life again or just someordinary blighter like me suffering from nerve strain?"

Haddingly had no answer to give for a moment. 

"He can't have really wanted to sit in that church for half an hour, "said Dalton. "What the dickens would he do it_ for?_"

"He might have wanted to pray, " said Haddingly. 

Not even his profession justified the saying of such a thing as thatoutside church. But every excuse must be made for him. He had beensoaked in Mallory for a fortnight Deserts, even when there are camps inthem, are queer places, liable to upset men's minds, and the conduct ofthe airman was certainly peculiar. 

"Of course, if you put it that way, " said Dalton, "I've nothing more tosay. All the same, he might have come into the mess for a drink. I'mnot complaining of his doing anything he liked in the way of goingto church; but I don't see that a whisky and soda would have hurt himafterwards. He must have wanted it. "

IX ~~ A GUN-RUNNING EPISODE

Sam McAlister walked into my office yesterday and laid down a handful ofsilver on my desk. 

"There you are, " he said, "and I am very much obliged to you for theloan. "

For the moment I could not recollect having lent Sam any money; though Ishould be glad to do so at any time if I thought he wanted it. Sam is aboy I like. He is an undergraduate of Trinity College, Dublin, andhas the makings of a man in him, though he is not good at passingexaminations and has never figured in an honours list. Some day, whenhe takes his degree, he is to come into my office and be made into alawyer. His father, the Dean, is an old friend of mine. 

I looked at the money lying before me, and then doubtfully at Sam. 

"If you've forgotten all about it, " he said, "it's rather a pity I paid. But I always was honest. That's one of my misfortunes. If I wasn't----That's the fine you paid for me. "

Then I remembered. Sam got into trouble with the police a few weeks ago. He and a dozen or so of his fellow-students broke loose and ran riotthrough the streets of Dublin. All high-spirited boys do this sort ofthing occasionally, whether they are junior army officers, lawyers'clerks, or university undergraduates. Trinity College boys, being Irishand having a large city at their gates, riot more picturesquely thananyone else. Sam had captured the flag which the Lord Mayor fliesoutside his house, had pushed a horse upstairs into the office of arespectable stockbroker, and had driven a motor-car, borrowed from anunwilling owner, down a narrow and congested street at twenty-five orthirty miles an hour. He was captured in the end by eight policemen, andwas very nearly sent to gaol with hard labour. I got him off by payinga fine of one pound, together with £2 4s. 6d. For the damage done by thehorse to the stockbroker's staircase and office furniture. The motorcar, fortunately, had neither injured itself nor anyone else. 

"I hope, " I said, pocketing the money, "that this will be a lesson toyou, Sam. "

"It won't, " he said. "At least, not in the way you mean. It'll encourageme to go into another rag the very first time I get the chance. As amatter of fact, being arrested was the luckiest thing ever happened tome, though I didn't think so at the time. "

"Well, " I said, "if you like paying up these large sums it's your ownaffair. I should have thought you could have got better value for yourmoney by spending it on something you wanted. "

"Money isn't everything in the world, " said Sam. "There is such a thingas having a good time, a rattling good time, even if you don't makemoney out of it and run a chance of being arrested. I daresay you'd liketo hear what I've been at. "

"If you've committed any kind of crime, " I said, "I'd rather you didn'ttell me. It might be awkward for me afterwards when you are tried. "

"I don't think it's exactly a crime, " said Sam, "anyhow, it isn'tanything wrong, though, of course, it may be slightly illegal. I'drather like to have your opinion about that. "

"Is it a long story? I'm rather busy to-day. "

"Not very long, " said Sam, "but I daresay it would sound better afterdinner. What would you say now to asking me to dine to-night at yourclub? We could go up to that library place afterwards. There's neveranybody there, and I could tell you the whole thing. "

Sam knows the ways of my club nearly as well as I do myself. Thereis never anyone in the library in the evening. I gave the requiredinvitation. 

We dined comfortably, and I got a good cigar for Sam afterwards. Whenthe waiter had left the room he plunged into his story. 

"You remember the day I was hauled up before that old ass of amagistrate. He jawed a lot and then fined me £3 4s. 6d. , which you paid. Jolly decent of you. I hadn't a shilling in the world, being absolutelystony broke at the time; so if you hadn't paid--and lots of fellowswouldn't--I should have had to go to gaol. "

"Never mind about that, " I said. "You've paid me back. "

"Still, I'm grateful, especially as I should have missed the spree ofmy life if I'd been locked up. As it was, thanks to you, I walked out ofthe court without a stain on my character. "

"Well, hardly that. You were found guilty of riotous behaviour, youknow. "

"Anyhow, I walked out, " said Sam, "and that's the main point. "

It was, of course, the point which mattered most; and, after all, thestain on Sam's character was not indelible. Lots of young fellows behaveriotously and turn out excellent men afterwards. I was an undergraduatemyself once, and there is a story about Sam's father, now a dean, whichis still told occasionally. When he was an undergraduate a cow was foundtied up in the big examination hall. 

Sam's father, who was very far from being a dean then, had borrowed thecow from a milkman. 

"There were a lot of men waiting outside, " said Sam. "They wanted tostand me a lunch in honour of my escape. "

"Your fellow-rioters, I suppose?"

"Well, most of them had been in the rag, and, of course, they were sorryfor me, being the only one actually caught. However, the lunch nevercame off. There was a queer old fellow standing on the steps of thecourt who got me by the arm as I came out. Said he wanted to speak to meon important business, and would I lunch with him. I didn't know what hecould possibly have to say to me, for I had never seen him before; buthe looked--it's rather hard to describe how he looked. He wasn't exactlywhat you'd call a gentleman, in the way of clothes, I mean; but hestruck me as being a sportsman. "

"Horsey?"

"Not the least. More like one's idea of some kind of modern pirate, though not exactly. He talked like an American. I went with him, ofcourse. "

"Of course, " I said, "anyone with an adventurous spirit would preferlunching with an unknown American buccaneer to sharing a commonplacefeast with a mob of boys. Did you happen to hear his name?"

"He said it was Hazlewood, but----"

"But it may not have been?"

"One of the other fellows called him Cassidy later on. "

"Oh, " I said, "there were other fellows?"

"There were afterwards, " said Sam, "not at first. He and I lunchedalone. He did me well. A bottle of champagne for the two of us andoffered me a second bottle. I refused that. "

"He came to business after the champagne, I suppose?"

"He more or less talked business the whole time, though at first Ididn't know quite what he was at. He gassed a lot about my havingknocked down those two policemen. You remember that I knocked down two, don't you? I would have got a third only that they collared me frombehind. Well, Hazlewood, or Cassidy, or whatever his name was, had seenthe scrap, and seemed to think no end of a lot of me for the fight I putup. "

"The magistrate took a serious view of it, too, " I said. 

"There wasn't much in it, " said Sam modestly. "As I told Hazlewood, anyfool can knock down a policeman. They're so darned fat. He asked me if Iliked fighting policemen. I said I did. "

"Of course. "

Sam caught some note of sarcasm in my voice. He felt it necessary tomodify his statement. 

"Well, not policemen in particular. I haven't a special down onpolicemen. I like a scrap with anyone. Then he said--Harlewood, thatis--that he admired the way I drove that car down Grafton Street. Hesaid he liked a man who wasn't afraid to take risks; which was rot. There wasn't any real risk. "

"The police swore that you went at thirty miles an hour, " I said. "Andthat street is simply crowded in the middle of the day. "

"I don't believe I was doing anything like thirty miles an hour, " saidSam. "I should say twenty-seven at the outside. And there was no riskbecause everybody cleared out of my way. I had the street practically tomyself. It was rather fun seeing all the other cars and carts and thingspiled up upon the footpaths at either side and the people boltinginto the shops like rabbits. But there wasn't any risk. However, oldHazlewood evidently thought there was, and seemed frightfully pleasedabout it He said he had a car of his own, a sixty h. P. Daimler, and thathe'd like to see me drive it. I said I'd take him for a spin any time heliked. I gave him a hint that we might start immediately after lunch andrun up to Belfast in time for dinner. With a car like that I could havedone it easy. However, he wasn't on. "

"Do you think he really had the car?"

"Oh, he had her all right I drove her afterwards. Great Scott, such adrive! The next thing he said was that he believed I was a pretty goodman in a boat. I said I knew something about boats, though not much. "

Modesty is one of Sam's virtues. He is, I believe, an excellent hand ina small yacht, and does a good deal of racing. 

"I asked him what put it into his head that I could sail a boat, and hesaid O'Meara told him. O'Meara is a man I sail with occasionally, and Ithought it nice of him to mention my name to this old boy. I can hoista spinnaker all right and shift a jib, but I'm no good at navigation. Always did hate sums and always will. I told him that, and he said hecould do the navigation himself. All he wanted was a good amateur crewfor a thirty-ton yawl with a motor auxiliary. He had four men, and heasked me to make a fifth. I said I'd go like a shot. Strictly speaking, I ought to have been attending lectures; but what good are lectures?""Very little, " I said. "In fact, hardly any. " "I wasn't going to lose acruise for the sake of any amount of lectures, " said Sam, "particularlywith the chance of a tour on that sixty h. P. Car thrown in. "

Sam paused at this point. It seemed to me that he wanted encouragement. 

"You'd have been a fool if you had, " I said. 

"Up to that time, " said Sam thoughtfully, "I hadn't tumbled to what hewas at. I give you my word of honour I hadn't the dimmest idea that hewas after anything in particular. I thought he was simply a good oldsport with lots of money, which he knew how to spend in sensible ways. "

"The criminal part of the business was mentioned later on, I suppose?"

"I don't know that there's anything criminal about it, " said Sam. "I'mjolly well sure it wasn't wrong, under the circumstances. But it mayhave been criminal. That's just what I want you to tell me. 

"I'll give you my opinion, " I said, "when I hear what it was. "

"Gun-running, " said Sam. 

Gun-running has for some time been a popular sport in Ireland, and Ifind it very difficult to say whether it is against the law or not. TheGovernment goes in for trying to stop it, which looks as if a gun-runnermight be prosecuted when caught. On the other hand, the Government neverprosecutes gun-runners, even those who openly boast of their exploits, and that looks as if it were quite a legal amusement. I promised Samthat I would consider the point, and I asked him to tell me exactly whathe did. 

"Well, " he said, "when I heard it was gunrunning I simply jumped at thechance. Any fellow would. I said I'd start right away, if he liked As amatter of fact, we didn't start for nearly a fortnight The boat turnedout to be the _Pegeen_. You know the _Pegeen_, don't you?"

I did not I am not a sailor, and except that I cannot help seeingparagraphs about _Shamrock IV_. In the daily papers I do not think Iknow the name of a single yacht. 

"Well, " said Sam, "she's O'Meara's boat I've sailed in her sometimes incruiser races. She's slow and never does any good, but she's a fine seaboat. My idea was that Hazlewood had hired her, and I didn't find outtill after we had started that O'Meara was on board. That surprised mea bit, for O'Meara goes in for being rather an extreme kind ofNationalist--not the sort of fellow you'd expect to be running guns forCarson and the Ulster Volunteers. However, I was jolly glad to see him. He crawled out of the cabin when we were a couple of miles out of theharbour, and by that time I'd have been glad to see anyone who knew oneend of the boat from the other. Old Hazlewood was all right; but theother three men were simply rotters, the sort of fellows who'd be justas likely as not to take a pull on a topsail halyard when told to slackaway the lee runner. I was just making up my mind to work the boatsingle-handed when O'Meara turned up. There was a middling fresh breezefrom the west, and we were going south on a reach. I didn't get muchchance of a talk with O'Meara because he was in one watch and I in theother--had to be, of course, on account of being the only two who knewanything about working the boat. I did notice, though, that when hespoke to Hazlewood he called him Cassidy. However, that was no businessof mine. We sailed pretty nearly due south that day and the next, andthe next after that. Then we hove to. "

"Where?" I asked. 

"Ask me another, " said Sam. "I told you I couldn't navigate. I hadn't anidea within a hundred miles where we were. What's more, I didn't care. I was having a splendid time, and had succeeded in knocking some sort ofsense into the other fellow in my watch. Hazlewood steered, and barringthat he was sea-sick for eight hours, my man turned out to be a decentsort, and fairly intelligent. He said his name was Temple, but Hazlewoodcalled him O'Reilly as often as not. "

"You seem to have gone in for a nice variety of names, " I said. "Whatdid you call yourself?"

"I stuck to my own name, of course. I wasn't doing anything to beashamed of. If we'd been caught and the thing had turned out to bea crime--I don't know whether it was or not, but if it was, Isuppose------"

"I suppose I should have paid your fine, " I said. 

"Thanks, " said Sam. "Thanks, awfully. I rather expected you wouldwhenever I thought about that part of it, but I very seldom did. "

"What happened when you lay to?"

"Nothing at first. We bumped about a bit for five or six hours, andTemple got frightfully sick again. I never saw a man sicker. Harlewoodkept on muddling about with charts, and doing sums on sheets of paper, and consulting with O'Meara. I suppose they wanted to make sure thatthey'd got to the right place. At last, just about sunset, a smallsteamer turned up. She hung about all night, and next day we startedearly, about four o'clock, and got the guns out of her, or some of them. We couldn't take the whole cargo, of course, in a 30-ton yacht I don'tknow how many more guns she had. Perhaps she hadn't any more. Only ourlittle lot Anyhow, I was jolly glad when the job was over. There wasa bit of a roll--nothing much, you know, but quite enough to make itpretty awkward. Temple got over his sea-sickness, which was a comfort. I suppose the excitement cured him. The way we worked was this--but Idaresay you wouldn't understand, even if I told you. "

"Is it very technical? I mean, must you use many sea words?"

"Must, " said Sam. "We were at sea, you know. "

"Well, " I said, "perhaps you'd better leave that part out. Tell me whatyou did with the guns when you'd got them. "

"Right It was there the fun really came in. Not that I'm complainingabout the other part. It was sport all right, but the funny part, thepart you'll like, came later. What _about_ another cigar?"

I rang the bell, and got two more cigars for Sam. 

"We had rather a tiresome passage home, " he said. "It kept on fallingcalm, and O'Meara's motor isn't very powerful. It took us a clear weekto work our way up to the County Down coast It was there we landed, ina poky little harbour. We went in at night, and had to wait for a fulltide to get in at all. We got the sails of the boat outside, and juststrolled in, so to speak, with the wretched little engine doing abouthalf it could. Hazlewood told me that he expected four motor-cars tomeet us, and that I was to take one of them, and drive like hell intoCounty Armagh. There I was to call at a house belonging to O'Meara, andhand over my share of the guns. He said he hoped I knew my way aboutthose parts, because it would be awkward for me trying to work with roadmaps when I ought to drive fast. I said I knew that country like thepalm of my hand. The governor's parish is up there, you know. "

Sam certainly ought to know County Down. He was brought up there, andmust have walked, cycled, and driven over most of the roads. 

"The only thing I didn't know, " said Sam, "was O'Meara's house. I'dnever heard of his having a house in that part of the country. However, he said he'd only taken it lately, and that when I got over the borderinto Armagh there'd be a man waiting to show me where to go. He toldme the road I was to take and I knew every turn of the way, so I feltpretty sure of getting there. It was about two in the morning when wegot alongside the pier. The four motors were there all right, but therewasn't a soul about except the men in charge of them. We got out theguns. They were done up in small bundles and the cartridges in handylittle cases; but it took us till half-past four o'clock to get themashore. By that time there were a few people knocking about; but theydidn't seem to want to interfere with us. In fact, some of them cameand helped us to pack the stuff into the cars. They were perfectlyfriendly. "

"That doesn't surprise me in the least, " I said "The people up thereare nearly all Protestants. Most of them were probably Volunteersthemselves. I daresay it wasn't the first cargo they'd helped to land. "

"It was the first cargo they ever helped to land for the NationalVolunteers, " said Sam with a grin. 

"The National Volunteers!"

I admit that Sam startled me. I do not suppose that he has any politicalconvictions. At the age of twenty a man has a few prejudices but noconvictions. If he is a young fellow who goes in for being intellectualthey are prejudices against the party his father belonged to. If--andthis is Sam's case--he is a healthy-minded young man, who enjoys sport, he takes over his father's opinions as they stand, and regards everybodywho does not accept them as an irredeemable blackguard. The Dean is avery strong loyalist. He is the chaplain of an Orange Lodge, and hastold me more than once that he hopes to march to battle at the head ofhis regiment of Volunteers. 

"Smuggling arms for the Nationalists!" I said. 

"That's what I did, " said Sam, grinning broadly. "But I thought allthe time that I was working for the other side. I didn't know theNationalists went in for guns; thought they only talked. In fact, totell you the truth, I forgot all about them. Otherwise I wouldn't havedone it At least I mightn't. But I had a great time. "

"Of course, " I said, "I don't mind. So far as I am concerned personallyI'd rather neither side had any guns. But if your father finds out, Sam, there'll be a frightful row. He'll disown you. "

"The governor knows all about it, " said Sam, "and he doesn't mindone bit. Just wait till you hear the end of the story. You'll be assurprised as I was. "

"I certainly shall, " I said, "if the story ends in your father'sapproving of your smuggling guns for rebels. He'd call them rebels, youknow. "

"Oh, " said Sam, "as far as rebellion goes I don't see that there's muchto choose between them. However, that doesn't matter. What happened wasthis. I got off with my load about five o'clock, and I had a gorgeousspin. There wasn't a cart or a thing on the roads, and I just let thecar rip. I touched sixty miles an hour, and hardly ever dropped belowforty. Best run I ever had. Almost the only thing I passed was a motorlorry, going the same way I was. I didn't think anything of it at thetime, but it turned out to be important afterwards. It was about seveno'clock when I got out of County Down into Armagh. I began looking outfor the fellow who was to meet me. It wasn't long before I spotted him, standing at a corner, trying to look as if he were a military sentry. You know the sort of thing I mean. Bandolier, belt, and frightfullystiff about the back. He held up his hand and I stopped. 'A loyal man, 'he said. Well, I was, so far as I knew at that time, so I said 'Youbet. ' 'That's not right, ' said he. 'Give the countersign. ' I hadn'theard anything about a countersign, so I told him not to be a damnedfool, and that I'd break his head if he said I wasn't a loyal man. Thatseemed to puzzle him a bit He got out a notebook and read a page ortwo, looking at me and the car every now and then as if he wasn't quitesatisfied. I felt pretty sure, of course, that he was the man I wanted. He couldn't very well be anyone else. So by way of cutting the businessshort I told him I was loaded up with guns and cartridges, and that Iwished he'd hop in and show me where to go. 'That's all very fine, ' hesaid, 'but you oughtn't to be in a car like that' I told him there wasno use arguing about the car. I wasn't going back to change it to pleasehim. He asked me who I was, and I told him, mentioning that I was thegovernor's son. I thought that might help him to make up his mind, andit did. The governor is middling well known up in those parts, and themention of his name was enough. The fellow climbed in beside me. Wehadn't very far to go, as it turned out, and in the inside of twentyminutes I was driving up the avenue of a big house. The size of itrather surprised me, for I didn't think O'Meara was well enough off tokeep up a place of the kind. However, I was evidently expected, for Iwas shown into the dining-room by a footman. There were three men atbreakfast, my old dad, Dopping--you know Dopping, don't you?"

Dopping is a retired cavalry colonel. I do business for him and know himpretty well He is just the sort of man who would be in the thick of anygun-running that was going on. 

"There was another man, " said Sam, "whom I didn't know and wasn'tintroduced to. The fact is there wasn't much time for politeness. My dadlooked as if he'd been shot when he saw me, and old Dopping bristled allover like an Irish terrier at the beginning of a fight, and asked mewho the devil I was and what I was doing there. Of course, he jolly wellknew who I was, and I thought he must know what brought me there, so Ijust winked by way of letting him understand that I was in the game. He got so red in the face that I thought he'd burst Then the otherman chipped in and asked me what I'd got in the car. The three ofthem whispered together for a bit, and I suggested that if they didn'tbelieve me they'd better go and see. The car was outside the door, andtheir own man was sitting on the guns. Dopping went, and I suppose hetold the other two that the guns were there all right Dad asked me whereI got them, and I told them, mentioning Hazlewood's name and the nameof the yacht I was a bit puzzled, but I still thought everything was allright, and that there'd be no harm in mentioning names. I very soonsaw that there was some sort of mistake somewhere. The governor and oldDopping and the other man, who seemed to be the coolest of the three, went over to the window and looked at the car. Then they startedwhispering again, and I couldn't hear a word they said. Didn't want to. I was as hungry as a wolf, and there was a jolly good breakfast on thetable. I sat down and gorged. I had just started my third egg whenthe door opened, and a rather nice-looking young fellow walked in. Thefootman came behind him, looking as white as a sheet, and began somesort of apology for letting the stranger in. Old Dopping, who was stillin a pretty bad temper, told the footman to go and be damned. Then thenew man introduced himself. He said he was Colonel O'Connell, of thefirst Armagh Regiment of National Volunteers. I expected to see oldDopping kill him at sight Dopping is a tremendous loyalist, and theother fellow--well--phew!"

Sam whistled. Words failed him, I suppose, when it came to expressingthe disloyalty of a colonel of National Volunteers. 

"Instead of that, " said Sam, "Dopping stood up straight, and salutedO'Connell. O'Connell stiffened his back, and saluted Dopping. Thethird man, the one I didn't know, stood up, too, and saluted. O'Connellsaluted him. Then the governor bowed quite civilly, and O'Connellsaluted him. I can tell you it was a pretty scene. 'I beg to informyou, gentlemen, ' said O'Connell, 'that a consignment of rifles andammunition, apparently intended for your force, has arrived at ourheadquarters in a motor lorry. ' Nothing could have been civiller thanthe way he spoke. But Dopping was not to be beat He's a bristly old bearat times, but he always was a gentleman. 'Owing to a mistake, ' he said, 'some arms, evidently belonging to you, are now in a car at our door. 'The governor and the other man sat down and laughed till they werepurple, but neither O'Connell nor old Dopping so much as smiled. It wasthen--and I give you my word not till then--that I tumbled to the ideathat I'd been running guns for the other side. I expected that there'dbe a furious row the minute the governor stopped laughing. Butthere wasn't In fact, no one took any notice of me. There was a longconsultation, and in the end they settled that it might be risky tostart moving the guns about again, and that each party had better stickto what it had got. Our fellows--I call them our fellows, though, ofcourse, I was really acting for the others--our fellows got rather thebetter of the exchange in the way of ammunition. But O'Connell scoopedin a lot of extra rifles. When they had that settled they all salutedagain, and the governor said something about hoping to meet O'Connellat Philippi. I don't know what he meant by that, but O'Connell seemedtremendously pleased. Where do you suppose Philippi is?"

"Philippi, " I said, "is where somebody--Julius Caesar, I think, but itdoesn't matter---- What your father meant was that he hoped to have achance of fighting it out with O'Connell some day. Not a duel, you know, but a proper battle. The Ulster Volunteers against the other lot. "

"We shall have to wipe out the police first, " said Sam, "to preventtheir interfering. I hope I shall be there then. I want to get my ownback out of those fellows who collared me from behind the day of thelast rag. But, I say, what about the soldiers--the regular soldiers, Imean? Which side will they be on?"

"That, " I said, "is the one uncertain factor in the problem. Nobodyknows. "

"The best plan, " said Sam, "would be to take them away altogether, andleave us to settle the matter ourselves. We'd do it all right, judgingby the way old Dopping and O'Connell behaved to each other. "

Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings. I should never have suspectedSam of profound political wisdom. But it is quite possible that hissuggestion would meet the case better than any other. 

X ~~ IRELAND FOR EVER

I

Lord Dunseverick picked his way delicately among the pools and toughcobble stones. He was a very well-dressed young man, and he seemed outof place amid the miry traffic of the Belfast quays. A casual observerwould have put him down as a fashionable nincompoop, one of those youngmen whose very appearance is supposed to move the British worker tooutbursts of socialistic fury. The casual observer would, in this case, have been mistaken. Lord Dunseverick, in spite of his well-fittingclothes, his delicately coloured tie, and his general air of sleekwell-being, was at that moment--it was the month of May, 1914--somethingof a hero with the Belfast working man. And the Belfast working man, as everybody knows, is more bitterly contemptuous of the idle rich, especially of the idle rich with titles, than any other working man. 

The Belfast working man had just then worked himself up to a degree ofmartial ardour, unprecedented even in Ulster, in his opposition to HomeRule. Lord Dunseverick was one of the generals of the Ulster VolunteerForce. He had made several speeches which moved Belfast to wilddelight and sober-minded men elsewhere to dubious shaking of the head. Enthusiasm in a cause is a fine thing, especially in the young, but whenLord Dunseverick's enthusiasm led him to say that he would welcome theGerman Emperor at the head of his legions as the deliverer of Ulsterfrom the tyranny of a Parliament in Dublin, why then--then the rank andfile of the volunteer army cheered, and other people wondered whetherit were quite wise to say such things. Yet Lord Dunseverick, when notactually engaged in making a speech, was a pleasant and agreeable youngman with a keen sense of humour. He even--and this is a rare quality inmen--saw the humorous side of his own speeches. The trouble was that henever saw it till after he had made them. 

A heavy motor-lorry came thundering along the quay. Lord Dunseverickdodged it, and escaped with his life. He was splashed from head to footwith mud. He looked at his neat boots and well-fashioned grey trousers. The blade slime lay thick on them. He wiped a spot of mud off his cheekand rubbed some wet coal dust into his collar. Then he lit a cigarette, and smiled. 

He stepped into the porch of a reeking public-house and found himselfbeside a grizzled man, who looked like a sailor. Lord Dunseverick turnedto him. 

"Can you tell me, " he said, "where Mr. McMunn's office is?"

"Is it coal you're wanting?" asked the sailor. 

It is thus that questions are often met in Belfast withcounter-questions. Belfast is a city of business men, and it is not thehabit of business men to give away anything, even information, withoutgetting something in return. The counter-question may draw some valuablematter by way of answer from the original questioner. In this casethe counter-question was a reasonable one. McMunn, of McMunn Brothers, Limited, was a coal merchant. Lord Dunseverick, though a peer, belongedto the north of Ireland. He understood Belfast. 

"What I want, " he said, "is to see Mr. Andrew McMunn. "

"I've business with Andrew McMunn myself, " said the sailor, "and I'mgoing that way. "

"Good. Then we'll go together. "

"My name, " said the sailor, "is Ginty. If you're intimate with AndrewMcMunn you'll likely have heard of me. "

"I haven't But that's no reason why you shouldn't show me the way. "

"It's no that far, " said Ginty. 

They walked together, sometimes side by side, sometimes driven apart bya string of carts. 

"If it had been Jimmy McMunn you wanted to see, " said Ginty, "you mighthave had further to go. Some says Jimmy's in the one place, and moreis of opinion that he's in the other. But I've no doubt in my own mindabout where Andrew will go when his time comes. "

"You know him pretty well, then?"

"Ay, I do. It would be queer if I didn't, seeing that I've sailed hisships this ten year. Andrew McMunn will go to heaven. "

"Ah, " said Lord Dunseverick, "he's a good man, then?"

"I'll no go so far as to say precisely that, " said Ginty, "but he's aman who never touches a drop of whisky nor smokes a pipe of tobacco. It'll be very hard on him if he doesna go to heaven after all he'smissed in this world. But you'll find out what kind of man he is if yougo in through the door forninst you. It's his office, thon's one withthe brass plate on the door. My business will keep till you're done withhim. "

Lord Dunseverick pushed open one of a pair of swinging doors, and foundhimself in a narrow passage. On his right was a ground glass windowbearing the word "Inquiries. " He tapped at it. 

For a minute or two there was no response. Lord Dunseverick brushedsome of the mud, now partially dry, off his trousers, and lit a freshcigarette. The ground glass window was opened, and a redhaired clerklooked out. 

"I want to see Mr. McMunn, " said Lord Dunseverick, "Mr. Andrew McMunn. "

The clerk put his head and shoulders out through the window, andsurveyed Lord Dunseverick suspiciously. Very well dressed young men, with pale lavender ties and pearl tie-pins--Lord Dunseverick hadboth--are not often seen in Belfast quay-side offices. 

"If you want to see Mr. McMunn, " said the clerk, "--and I'm no sayingyou will, mind that--you'd better take yon cigarette out of your mouth. There's no smoking allowed here. "

Lord Dunseverick took his cigarette out of his mouth, but he did notthrow it away. He held it between his fingers. 

"Just tell Mr. McMunn, " he said, "that Lord Dunseverick is here. "

The clerk's manner altered suddenly. He drew himself up, squared hisshoulders, and saluted. 

The discovery that a stranger is a man of high rank often produces thiskind of effect on men of strong democratic principles, principles ofthe kind held by clerks in all business communities, quite as firmly inBelfast as elsewhere. But it would have been a mistake to suppose thatMr. McMunn's junior clerk was a mere worshipper of title. His salutewas not the tribute of a snob to the representative of an aristocraticclass. It was the respect due by a soldier, drilled and disciplined, to his superior officer. It was also the expression of a young man'ssincere hero-worship. The redhaired clerk was a Volunteer, dulyenrolled, one of the signatories of the famous Ulster Covenant LordDunseverick had made speeches which moved his soul to actual rapture. 

"Come inside, my lord, " he said. "I'll inform Mr. McMunn at once. "

Lord Dunseverick passed through a door which was held open for him. Heentered a large office, very grimy, which is the proper condition of aplace where documents concerning coal are dealt with. Six other clerkswere at work there. When Lord Dunseverick entered, all six of them stoodup and saluted. They, too, so it appeared, were members of the VolunteerForce. The red-haired junior clerk crossed the room towards a doormarked "Private. " Then he paused, and turned to Lord Dunseverick. 

"Might I be so bold as to ask a question?" he said. 

"A dozen if you like, " said Lord Dunseverick. 

"What about the rifles? It's only them we're wanting now. We're drilledand we're ready, but where's the rifles?"

"You shall have them, " said Lord Dunseverick. 

The clerks in Mr. McMunn's office were accustomed to behavewith decorum. No more than a low murmur of approval greeted LordDunseverick's words; but the men looked as if they wished to cheervehemently. The red-haired boy tapped at the door which was marked"Private. " A minute later he invited Lord Dunseverick to pass throughit. 

Andrew McMunn is a hard-faced, grizzled little man, with keen blueeyes. He can, when he chooses, talk excellent English. He prefers, whendealing with strangers, to speak with a strong Belfast accent, and touse, if possible, north of Ireland words and phrases. This is his way ofasserting independence of character. He admires independence. 

His office is a singularly unattractive room. He writes at a largetable, and has a fireproof safe at his elbow. There are three woodenchairs ranged against the wall opposite the writing-table. Fourphotographs of steamers, cheaply framed, hang above the chairs. They are_The Andrew McMunn, The Eliza McMunn_, and, a tribute to the deceasedJimmy, _The McMunn Brothers_. These form the fleet owned by the firm, and carry coal from one port to another, chiefly to Belfast. On thechimney-piece under a glass shade, is a model of _The McMunn Brothers_, the latest built and largest of the ships. 

"Good-morning to you, my lord!" said McMunn, without rising from hisseat. 

He nodded towards one of the chairs which stood against the wall. Thiswas his way of inviting his visitor to sit down. His eyes were fixed, with strong disapproval, on the cigarette, which still smoked feebly inLord Dunseverick's hand. 

"Your clerk gave me a hint, " said Dunseverick, "that you object totobacco. "

"It's my opinion, " said McMunn, "that the man who pays taxes that heneedn't pay--I'm alluding to the duty on tobacco, you'll understand--forthe sake of poisoning himself with a nasty stink, is little better thana fool. That's my opinion, and I'm of the same way of thinking aboutalcoholic drink. "

Lord Dunseverick deposited the offending cigarette on the hearth andcrushed it with his foot. 

"Teetotaller?" he said. "I dare say you're right, though I take awhisky-and-soda myself when I get the chance. "

"You'll no get it here, " said McMunn; "and what's more, you'll no' getit on any ship owned by me. "

"Thank you. It's as well to understand before-hand. "

"I'm a believer in speaking plain, " said McMunn. "There's ay lesschance of trouble afterwards if a man speaks plain at the start. ButI'm thinking that it wasn't to hear my opinion on the Christian religionthat your lordship came here the day. "

McMunn, besides being a teetotaller, and opposed to the smoking oftobacco, was the president of a Young Men's Anti-Gambling League. Hewas, therefore, in a position to throw valuable light on the Christianreligion. 

"I came to settle the details about this expedition to Hamburg, " saidLord Dunseverick. 

"Well, " said McMunn, "there's no that much left to settle. _TheBrothers_ is ready. "

"_The Brothers?_"

"_The McMunn Brothers_. Thon's the model of her on the chimneypiece. "

Lord Dunseverick looked at the model attentively. It represented a veryunattractive ship. Her bow was absurdly high, cocked up like the snoutof a Yorkshire pig. Her long waist lay low, promising little freeboardin a sea. Her engines and single funnel were aft. On a short, highquarterdeck was her bridge and a squat deck-house. She was designed, like her owner, for purely business purposes. 

"You'll have the captain's cabin, " said McMunn. "Him and me will sleepin the saloon. "

"Oh, you're coming too?"

"I am. Have you any objection?"

"None whatever. I'm delighted. We'll have a jolly time. "

"I'll have you remember, " said McMunn, "that it's not pleasuring we'reout for. "

"It's serious business. Smuggling rifles in the teeth of a RoyalProclamation is----"

"When I understand, " said McMunn, "and you understand, where's the useof saying what we're going for? I'm taking risks enough anyway, withoutunnecessary talking. You never know who's listening to you. "

"About paying for the--er--the--er--our cargo? Is that all arranged?"

"They'll be paid in bills on a Hamburg bank, " said McMunn. 

"Won't they expect cash? I should have thought that in transactions ofthis kind----"

"You're not a business man, my lord; but I'd have you know that abill with the name of McMunn to it is the same as cash in any port inEurope. "

"Well, that's your part of the affair. I am leaving that to you. "

"You may leave it What I say I'll do. But there's one thing that I'm noquite easy in my mind about. "

"If you're thinking about the landing of the guns----"

"I'm no asking what arrangements you've made about that. The fewer thereis that knows what's being done in a business of this kind, the betterfor all concerned. What's bothering me is this. There's a man calledEdelstein. "

"Who's he? I never heard of him before. "

"He's the Baron von Edelstein, if that's any help to you. "

"It isn't. He's not the man we're buying the stuff from. "

"He is not. Nor he wasn't mentioned from first to last till the letter Igot the day. "

He turned to the safe beside him and drew out a bundle of papers heldtogether by an elastic band. 

"That's the whole of the correspondence, " he said, "and there's the lastof it. "

He handed a letter to Lord Dunseverick, who read it through carefully. 

"This baron, " he said, "whoever he is, intends to pay his respects to usbefore we leave Hamburg. Very civil of him. "

"It's a civility we could do without. When I'm doing business I'd ratherdo it with business men, and a baron, you'll understand, is no just----"

"I'm a baron myself, " said Lord Dunseverick. 

"Ay, you are. "

McMunn said no more. He left it to be understood that his opinionof barons in general was not improved by his acquaintance with LordDunseverick. 

"I don't think we need bother about Von Eddstein, anyway, " said LordDunseverick. "What harm can he do us?"

"I'm no precisely bothering about him, " said McMunn; "but I'd be easierin my mind if I knew what he wanted with us. "

"We sail to-night, anyway, " said Lord Dunseverick. 

"Ay, we do. I tell't Ginty. He's the captain of _The McMunn Brothers_, and a good man. "

"I've met him. In fact----"

"If you've met Ginty you've met a man who knows his business, though Iwish he'd give over drinking whisky. However, he's a strong Protestantand a sound man, and you can't expect perfection. "

"Capital!" said Lord Dunseverick. "It's a great comfort to be sure ofone's men. "

"I wish I was as sure of every one as I am of Ginty, " said McMunn. "I'mno saying that your lordship's not sound. The speech you made last nightat Ballymena was good enough, and I'm with you in every word of it;but----"

"Oh, speeches!" said Lord Dunseverick. 

He was uneasily conscious that he had allowed himself to be carried awayby the excitement of the occasion when speaking at Ballymena. It wasright and proper to threaten armed resistance to Home Rule. It wasanother thing to offer a warm welcome to the German Emperor if hechose to land in Ulster. The cold emphasis with which McMunn expressedagreement with every word of the speech made Lord Dunseverick vaguelyuneasy. 

"Ay, " said McMunn; "your speeches are well enough, and I don't say, mindyou, that you're not a sound man; but I'd be better pleased if you weremore serious. You're too fond of joking, in my opinion. "

"Good heavens!" said Lord Dunseverick. "I haven't ventured on the ghostof a joke since I came into your office!" He looked round him as hespoke, and fixed his eyes at last on the fireproof safe. "Nobody could. "

"It's no what you've said, it's your lordship's appearance. But it's toolate to alter that, I'm thinking. "

"Not at all, " said Lord Dunseverick. "I'll join you this evening ina suit of yellow oilskins, the stickiest kind, and a blue fisherman'sjersey, and a pair of sea-boots. I'll have----"

"You will, " said McMunn, "and you'll look like a play actor. It's justwhat I'm complaining of. "

II

_The McMunn Brothers_ lay, with steam up, at a single anchor a milebelow the Hamburg quays. The yellow, turbid waters of the Elbe sweptpast her sides. Below her stretched the long waterway which leads tothe North Sea. The lights of the buoys which marked the channel twinkleddimly in the gloom of the summer evening. Shafts of brighter light sweptacross and across the water from occulting beacons set at long intervalsamong buoys. Above the steamer lay a large Norwegian barque waiting forher pilot to take her down on the ebb tide. Below _The McMunn Brothers_was an ocean-going tramp steamer. One of her crew sat on the forecastleplaying the "Swanee River" on a melodeon. 

McMunn, Ginty, and Lord Dunseverick were together in the cabin of _TheMcMunn Brothers_. McMunn, dressed precisely as he always dressed in hisoffice, sat bolt upright on the cabin sofa. In front of him on the tablewere some papers, which he turned over and looked at from time to time. 

Beside him was Ginty, in his shirt sleeves, with his peaked cap pushedfar back on his head. He sat with his elbows on the table. His chin, thrust forward, rested on his knuckles. He stared fixedly at thepanelling on the opposite wall of the cabin. Lord Dunseverick, who hada side of the table to himself, leaned far back. His legs were stretchedout straight in front of him. His hands were in his pockets. He gazedwearily at the small lamp which swung from the cabin roof. 

For a long time no one spoke. It was Lord Dunseverick who broke thesilence in the end. He took his cigarette-case from his pocket. 

"You may say what you like about tobacco, McMunn, " he said, "but it's acomfort to a man when he has no company but a bear with a sore head. "

"Ay, " said McMunn, "you'll smoke and you'll smoke, but you'll no make meany easier in my mind by smoking. "

Ginty drew a plug of black tobacco from his pocket, and began cuttingshreds from it with a clasp knife. He was apparently of opinion thatsmoking would relieve the strain on _his_ mind. 

"I'm no satisfied, " said McMunn. 

"I don't see what you have to grumble about, " said Lord Dunseverick. "We've got what we came for, and we've got our clearance papers. Whatmore do you want? You expected trouble about those papers, and therewasn't any. You ought to be pleased. "

"There you have it, " said McMunn. "According to all the laws of naturethere ought to have been trouble. With a cargo like ours there ought tohave been a lot of trouble. Instead of that the papers are handed overto us without a question. "

"It's peculiar, " said Ginty. "It's very peculiar, and that's a fact. "

"Then there's the matter of those extra cases, " said McMunn. "How manycases is there in the hold, Ginty?"

"A hundred, seventy-two. "

"And the contract was for one-fifty. What's in the odd twenty-two? Tellme that. "

"Pianos, " said Lord Dunseverick. "Look at your clearance papers. 'Natureof Cargo--Pianos. '"

"You'd have your joke, " said McMunn, "if the flames of hell werescorching the soles of your boots. "

"It's peculiar, " said Ginty. 

"It's more than peculiar, " said McMunn. "I've been in business forthirty years, and it's the first time I ever had goods given me that Ididn't ask for. "

"Well, " said Lord Dunseverick, "if we've got an extra five hundredrifles we can't complain. There's plenty of men in Ulster ready to usethem. "

"Maybe you'll tell me, " said McMunn, "why they wouldn't let me pay forthe goods in the office this afternoon. Did anyone ever hear the like ofthat--a man refusing money that was due to him, and it offered?"

"It's out of the course of nature, " said Ginty. 

"They told you, " said Lord Dunseverick, "that you could pay VonEdelstein, and he'd give you a receipt. "

"Ay, Von Edelstein. And where's Von Edelstein?"

"He's coming on board this evening, " said Lord Dunseverick. "But youneedn't wait for him unless you like. We've got steam up. Why not slipaway?"

"Because it's no my way of doing business, " said McMunn, "to slipaway, as you call it, without paying for what I've got I'm a man ofprinciple. "

"Talking of your principles, " said Lord Dunseverick, "what did you bringon board in that basket this afternoon? It looked to me like beer. "

"It was beer. "

"I'm glad to hear it, " said Lord Dunseverick. "Let's have a couple ofbottles. "

Ginty took his pipe from his mouth and grinned pleasantly. He wantedbeer. 

"You'll be thinking maybe, " said McMunn, "that I'm going back on mytemperance principles?"

"We don't think anything of the sort, " said Lord Dunseverick. "We thinkthat foreign travel has widened your principles out a bit That's what wethink, isn't it, Ginty?"

"My principles are what they always were, " said McMunn, "but I've somesmall share of commonsense. I know there's a foreigner coming on boardthe night, a baron and a dissipated man----"

"Come, now, '" said Lord Dunseverick, "you can't be sure that VonEdelstein is dissipated. You've never met him. "

"He's a foreigner and a baron, " said McMunn, "and that's enough for me, forbye that he's coming here under very suspicious circumstances. IfI can get the better of him by means of strong drink and the snare ofalcoholic liquors----"

"Good Lord!" said Lord Dunseverick. "You don't expect to make a Germandrunk with half a dozen bottles of lager beer, particularly as Ginty andI mean to drink two each. "

"There's a dozen in the basket. And, under the circumstances, I considermyself justified I'm no man for tricks, but if there's any tricks to beplayed, I'd rather play them myself than have them played on me. Mindthat now. It's the way I've always acted, and it's no a bad way. "

"Gosh, " said Ginty, "there's somebody coming aboard of us now. Thelook-out man's hailing him. "

He left the cabin as he spoke. 

A few minutes later Ginty entered the cabin again. He was followed bya tall man, so tall that he could not stand quite upright in the littlecabin. 

"It's the baron, " said Ginty. 

"_Guten Abend_, " said McMunn. 

He possessed some twenty more German words, and knew that "beer" wasrepresented by the same sound as in English. The equipment seemed to himsufficient for the interview. 

"I have the good fortune to speak English easily, " said Von Edelstein. "Am I addressing myself to Mr. McMunn?"

"Ay, " said McMunn, "you are. And this is Lord Dunseverick, a baron likeyourself. "

Von Edelstein bowed, and held out his hand. 

"I prefer, " he said, "my military title, Captain von Edelstein. Ibelieve that Lord Dunseverick also has a military title. Should I saycolonel?"

"As a matter of fact, " said Lord Dunseverick, "I'm not in the Army. "

"I understand, " said Von Edelstein. "You are in the Volunteers, theUlster Volunteers. But, perhaps I should say general?"

"I don't call myself that, " said Lord Dunseverick. 

"As a matter of fact, my rank is not officially recognized, in England, I mean. "

"Ah, but here--we recognize it I assure you, general, we regard theUlster Volunteers as a properly constituted military force. "

McMunn had been groping in a locker behind him. He interrupted VonEdelstein by setting a basket on the table. 

"Beer, " he said. 

Von Edelstein bowed, and sat down. 

"Ginty, " said McMunn, "get some tumblers. And now Baron----"

"Captain, " said Von Edelstein. 

"Well get to business. What's in them twenty-two cases that was dumpedinto our hold today?"

"Ah, " said Von Edelstein, smiling. "A little surprise. I hope, I feelconfident, a pleasant surprise, for my comrades of the Ulster VolunteerForce. "

Ginty entered the cabin carrying three tumblers and a corkscrew. Thebeer was opened and poured out Von Edelstein raised his glass. 

"To the Ulster Volunteer Force, " he said, "and to the day when thepleasant little surprise we have prepared for you may prove a veryunpleasant surprise for--the enemy. "

He bowed and drank. 

"What's in them cases?" said McMunn. 

"Gentlemen, " said Von Edelstein, "something that will be of great valueto you--machine guns. "

"We didn't order them, " said McMunn, "and I'm not going to pay forthem. "

"I am not authorized, " said Von Edelstein, "to reveal secrets of State;but I think I may trust your discretion so far as to say that onevery highly placed desires that the Ulster Volunteer Force should bethoroughly equipped for war. It is his wish:----"

"Baron, " said McMunn, "here's a bill drawn on my firm for the price ofthe rifles. I'll trouble you for a receipt, and in the matter of thecontents of them cases--I don't say they're not machine guns, but I'veno way of knowing at present. If it turns out that they're any use to uswe may strike a bargain, but I'll no pay for a pig in a poke. "

He laid his bill and a form of receipt on the table. Von Edelsteinpushed them aside. 

"Gentlemen, " he said, "between comrades in arms there is no questionof payment. It is the wish of one who is very highly placed that yourarmy----"

"But look here, " said Lord Dunseverick, "we are not comrades in arms, asyou call it. "

"Ah, " said Von Edelstein. "Not to-day, not to-morrow perhaps. Butwho knows how soon? When the word is given, and some batteries of ourartillery land in Belfast to support your excellent infantry----"

"What's that?" said Ginty. 

"And a regiment of Prussian Guards----"

"There'll be no Prussians in Belfast, " said Ginty, "for we'll not haveit. "

"I am afraid, " said Lord Dunseverick, "that you've got some wrong ideainto your head. "

"But, " said Von Edelstein, "you cannot fight alone. You would be--whatdo you call it?--you would be wiped out Even the English Army could dothat. You have no artillery. You have no cavalry. What are you but----"

"Who said we were going to fight the English Army?" said LordDunseverick. 

"If you think we're a pack of dirty rebels, " said Ginty, "you're makinga big mistake. We're loyal men. "

"But if you are not going to fight the English, " said Von Edelstein, "God in heaven, who are you going to fight?"

"Young man, " said McMunn, "you're drinking beer in my ship, a thingwhich is clean contrary to my principles, though I'm putting up with it;but you're going beyond the beyonds when you sit here and take the nameof the Almighty in vain. I'll trouble you not to swear. "

Von Edelstein stared at him in blank amazement Then very slowly a lookof intelligence came over his face. He turned to Lord Dunseverick. 

"I think I understand, " he said. "You do not quite trust me. You fearthat I may be a spy in the pay of infamous Englishmen. But you aremistaken--entirely mistaken. I offer you proof of my good faith. General, be so kind as to read my commission. "

He drew a folded document from his pocket, and spread it out before LordDunseverick. 

"It is signed, " he said, "as you see, by the Emperor himself. It placesmy services, the services of Captain von Edelstein, of the PrussianGuard, at the disposal of the Ulster Volunteer Force, as militaryorganiser. "

Lord Dunseverick glanced at the document before him. He read parts ofit with close attention. He laid his finger on the signature as if toconvince himself by actual touch that it really was what it seemed tobe. 

"You see, " said Von Edelstein, "I am to be trusted. When you and Iare fighting side by side against the cursed English, your enemies andours----"

Von Edelstein was still smiling. What happened then happened in aninstant Lord Dunseverick struck the German full on the mouth with hisfist Von Edelstein's head went back. His hands clutched convulsively atthe tablecloth. Before he had recovered, Lord Dunseverick hit him again, beat him down on the cabin sofa, and struck blow after blow at his face. 

"You infernal scoundrel, " he said, "do you take me for a traitor?"

"Quit it, " said McMunn. "Quit it when I tell you. You cannot kill theman with your naked fists, and you'll break the furniture. "

Ginty drew a long coil of rope from a locker. He tied up Von Edelsteinand laid him, a helpless figure, on the table. 

"It's my opinion, " said McMunn, "that we'd better be getting out tosea. "

"I'm thinking the same, " said Ginty. 

He went on deck. Soon _The McMunn Brothers_ was under way. 

Lord Dunseverick looked at the prostrate Von Edelstein. 

"What are we going to do with him?" he asked. 

"Drown him, " said McMunn. 

A trickle of blood was running down Von Edelstein's chin. He spat outsome fragments of broken teeth. 

"It appears, " he said, "that I have made a mistake about yourintentions. "

"You've offered an outrageous insult to loyal men, " said McMunn. 

"A mistake, " said Von Edelstein, "but surely excusable. I have in mypocket at the present moment--would you be so kind as to feel in mybreast pocket? You'll find some papers there, and a newspaper cuttingamong them. "

Lord Dunseverick slipped his hand into the prisoner's pocket. He drewout a number of letters and a newspaper cutting. It was a report, takenfrom the _Belfast News Letter_, of the speech which he had made atBallymena a fortnight before. He had proclaimed the Kaiser the delivererof Ulster. His own words stared him in the face. McMunn took the cuttingand glanced at it. He thumped his fist on the table. 

"I stand by every word of it, " he said. "We will not have Home Rule. "

"You are a curious people, " said Von Edelstein. "I thought--and even nowyou say----"

"That speech, " said McMunn, "was made for an entirely different purpose. If you thought that we wanted a German Army in Ulster, or that we meantto fire on the British flag----"

"It is exactly what I did think, " said Von Edelstein. 

"You're a born fool, then, " said McMunn. 

"Perhaps, " said Lord Dunseverick, "we ought not to drown him. Suppose wetake him home, and hand him over to the Ulster Provisional Government?"

"I wish you would, " said Von Edelstein, "I am a student of human nature. I should greatly like to meet your Ulster Government. "

"You'll maybe not like it so much when they hang you, " said McMunn, "andit's what they'll do. "

XI ~~ SIR TIMOTHY'S DINNER-PARTY

Mr. Courtney, the R. M. , was a man of ideas, and prided himself on hissympathy with progress, the advance of thought, and similar delights. Ifhe had been thirty years younger, and had lived in Dublin, he would havebeen classed among the "Intellectuals. " He would then have written agloomy play or two, several poems and an essay, published at a shilling, in a green paper cover, on the "Civilization of the Future. " Being, unfortunately, fifty-five years of age, he could not write poetryor gloomy plays. Nobody can after the age of forty. Being a ResidentMagistrate, he was debarred from discussing the Civilization of theFuture in print. No Government allows its paid servant to write books oncontroversial subjects. But Mr. Courtney remained intellectually alert, and was a determined champion of the cause of progress, even amid theuncongenial society of a West of Ireland town. 

The introduction of Summer Time gave Mr. Courtney a great opportunity. Almost everyone else in the neighbourhood objected to the change of theclock. Cows, it was said, disliked being milked before their accustomedhour. Dew collects in deep pools, and renders farm work impossible inthe early morning. It is unreasonable to expect labourers, who haveto rise early in any case, to get out of their beds before the day isproperly warm. Mr. Courtney combated all these objections with argumentswhich struck him as sound, but irritated everybody else. When itappeared that Ireland, worse treated as usual than England, was tobe fined an additional twenty-five minutes, and was to lose the proudprivilege of Irish time, Mr. Courtney was more pleased than ever. Hemade merry over what he called the arguments of reactionary patriotism. 

Sir Timothy was the principal landlord, and, socially, the mostimportant person in the neighbourhood. Sir Timothy did not like Mr. Courtney. He was of opinion that the R. M. Was inclined to take a highhand at Petty Sessions and to bully the other magistrates--Sir Timothywas himself a magistrate--who sat with him on the Bench. He also thoughtthat Mr. Courtney was "too d----d superior" in private life. Sir Timothyhad the lowest possible opinion of the progress made by civilization inhis own time. The Civilization of the Future, about which Mr. Courtneytalked a great deal, seemed to Sir Timothy a nasty kind of nightmare. 

It was natural, almost inevitable, that Sir Timothy should take aconservative view on the subject of the new time. 

"I don't see the use of playing silly tricks with the clock, " he said. "You might just as well say that I'd live ten years longer if everybodyagreed to say that I'm forty-eight instead of fifty-eight. I'd stillbe fifty-eight in reality. It's just the same with the time. We may allmake up our minds to pretend it's eight o'clock when it's really seven, but it will still be seven. "

Mr. Courtney smiled in a gentle, but very annoying manner. 

"My dear Sir Timothy, " he said, "don't you see that what is reallywanted is a complete change in the habits of the population? We've beengradually slipping into wasteful ways of living. Our expenditure onartificial light------"

"I know all about that, " said Sir Timothy. "If you've said it to meonce, you've said it a dozen times, and last year I did alter my docks. But this year--hang it all! They're sticking another twenty-five minuteson it. If they go on at this rate, moving us back an extra half hourevery May, we'll be living in the middle of the night before we die. "

"I'm sorry to hear you taking up that question of the so-called Irishtime, " said Mr. Courtney. "Reactionary patriotism----"

Sir Timothy spluttered. Being an Irish gentleman, he hated to be accusedof patriotism, which he held--following Dr. Johnson--to be the lastrefuge of a scoundrel. 

"There's nothing patriotic about it, " he said. "What I object to hasn'tanything to do with any particular country. It's simply a direct insultto the sun. "

"The sun, " said Mr. Courtney, smiling more offensively than ever, "cantake care of itself. "

"It can, " said Sir Timothy, "and does. It takes jolly good care notto rise in Dublin at the same time that it does in Greenwich, and whatyou're trying to do is to bluff it into saying it does. When you come tothink of it, the sun doesn't rise here the same time it does in Dublin. We're a hundred and twenty miles west of Dublin, so the real timehere----"

"We can't have a different time in every parish, " said Mr. Courtney. "Inthe interests of international civilization----"

"I don't care a row of pins about international civilization. We'resomething like twenty minutes wrong already here. When you've made yoursilly change to summer time, and wiped out that twenty-five minutesIrish time, we shall be an hour and three quarters wrong. "

"At all events, " said Mr. Courtney, "you'll have to do it. "

"I won't. "

"And when you've got accustomed to it, you'll see the advantages of thechange. "

Sir Timothy was profoundly irritated. 

"You may do as you like, " he said, "I mean to stick to the proper time. The proper time, mind you, strictly according to the sun, as it risesin this neighbourhood. I haven't worked it out exactly yet, but I shouldsay, roughly, that there'll be two hours' difference between your watchand mine. "

Mr. Courtney gasped. 

"Do you mean to say that you're actually going to add on two hours?

"I'm going to take off two hours, " said Sir Timothy. 

Mr. Courtney thought for a moment. 

"You'll be adding on those two hours, " he said, "not taking themoff----"

"You're an extraordinarily muddle-headed man, Courtney. Can't you seethat if I call it six when you say it's eight I'm taking off----"

"You're not. The way to look at it is this: A day is twenty-four hourslong. You say it's twenty-six hours. Therefore, you add on. "

"I don't do anything of the sort, " said Sir Timothy. "Look here, the sunrises, say, at 6 a. M. You and a lot of other silly people choose to saythat it rises at 8. What I'm doing--I and the sun, Courtney--mind that. The sun's with me---- What we're doing is taking off two hours. "

The argument went on for some time. Its result was that Sir Timothyand Mr. Courtney did not speak to each other again for a fortnightArguments, religious, political and economic, often end in this way. 

During that fortnight summer time established itself, more or less, inthe neighbourhood. Mr. Courtney, the local bank, the railway company, and the police observed the new time in its full intensity. The parishpriest and most of the farmers took a moderate line. They sacrificedthe twenty-five minutes of the original Irish time, but resisted theimposition of a whole extra hour. With them it was eight o'clock whenthe nine o'clock train started for Dublin. A few extremists stood outfor their full rights as Irishmen, and insisted that the bank, whichsaid it opened at 10 a. M. , was really beginning business at 8. 35 a. M. Sir Timothy, dragging his household with him, set up what he calledactual time, and breakfasted a full two hours after the progressiveparty. 

The practical inconvenience of these differences of opinion becameobvious when Sir Timothy arrived at the Petty Sessions Court to take hisseat on the Bench just as Mr. Courtney, having completed the business ofthe day, was going home for a rather late luncheon. 

"No cases to-day?" said Sir Timothy, coldly polite. 

"Oh, yes, there were, several. I've finished them off. "

"But, " said Sir Timothy, "it's only just the hour for beginning. "

"Excuse me, it's 2 p. M. "

"12 noon, " said Sir Timothy. 

"2 p. M. , " repeated Mr. Courtney. 

Sir Timothy took out his watch. The hands were together at the hour of12. He showed it to Mr. Courtney, who grimed. Sir Timothy scowled at himand turned fiercely to a police sergeant who stood by. 

"Sergeant, " he said, "what time is it?"

It is not the function of the Irish police to decide great questions ofState. Their business is to enforce what the higher powers, for the timebeing, wish the law to be. In case of any uncertainty about which poweris the higher, the police occupy the uncomfortable position of neutrals. The sergeant was not quite sure whether Sir Timothy or Mr. Courtney werethe more influential man. He answered cautiously. 

"There's some, " he said, "who do be saying that it's one o'clock at thepresent time. There's others--and I'm not saying they're wrong--who areof opinion that it's half-past twelve, or about that. There's them--andsome of the most respectable people is with them there--that says it's 2p. M. If I was to be put on my oath this minute, I'd find it mortal hardto say what time it was. "

"By Act of Parliament, " said Mr. Courtney, its 2 p. M. 

"In the matter of an Act of Parliament, " said the sergeant, "I wouldn'tlike to be contradicting your honour. "

Sir Timothy turned on his heel and walked away. The victory was with Mr. Courtney, but not because he had an Act of Parliament behind him. Nobodyin Ireland pays much attention to Acts of Parliament. He made his pointsuccessfully, because the police did not like to contradict him. From that day on Sir Timothy made no attempt to take his seat on theMagistrates' Bench in the Court House. 

Late in the summer Sir Archibald Chesney visited the neighbourhood. SirArchibald is, of course, a great man. He is one of the people who aresupposed to govern Ireland. He does not actually do so. Nobody could. But he dispenses patronage, which, after all, is one of the mostimportant functions of any Government. It was, for instance, in SirArchibald's power to give Mr. Courtney a pleasant and well-paid post inDublin, to remove him from the uncongenial atmosphere of Connaught, andset him in an office in the Lower Castle Yard. There, and in a housein Ailesbury Road--houses in Ailesbury Road are most desirable--Mr. Courtney could mingle in really intellectual society. 

Mr. Courtney knew this, and invited Sir Archibald to be his guest duringhis stay in the neighbourhood. Sir Archibald gracefully accepted theinvitation. 

Then a surprising thing happened. Mr. Courtney received a very friendlyletter from Sir Timothy. 

"I hear, " so the letter ran, "that Sir Archibald Chesney is to be withyou for a few days next week. We shall be very pleased if you will bringhim out to dine with us some evening. Shall we say Tuesday at 7. 30? Ishall not ask anyone else. Three of us will be enough for a couple ofbottles of my old port. "

Sir Timothy's port was very old and remarkably good. Mr. Courtney hadtasted it once or twice before the days when summer time was thought of. No doubt, Sir Archibald would appreciate the port. 

He might afterwards take an optimistic view of life, and feel welldisposed towards Mr. Courtney. The invitation was accepted. 

Sir Archibald and Mr. Courtney dressed for dinner, as gentlemenbelonging to the high official classes in Ireland should and do. Theyput on shirts with stiff fronts and cuffs. With painful efforts theydrove studs through tightly sealed buttonholes. They fastened whiteties round their collars. They encased their stomachs in stiff whitewaistcoats. They struggled into silk-lined, silk-faced, long-tailedcoats. They wrapped their necks in white silk scarves. They even puthigh silk hats on their heads. Their overcoats were becomingly open, forthe day was warm. They took their seats in the motor. Every policemanin the village saluted them as they passed. They sped up the long, tree-lined avenue which led to Sir Timothy's house. They reached thelofty doorway, over which crouched lions upheld a shield, bearing a coatof arms. 

On the lawn opposite the door Sir Timothy, his two daughters and a youngman whom Mr. Courtney recognized as the police inspector, were playingtennis. It was a bright and agreeable scene. The sun shone pleasantly. Sir Timothy and the police inspector were in white flannels. The girlswore pretty cotton frocks. 

Sir Archibald looked at Mr. Courtney. 

"We've come the wrong day, " he said, "or the wrong hour, or something. "

"It _is_ Tuesday, " said Mr. Courtney, "and he certainly said 7. 30. "

"It's infernally awkward, " said Sir Archibald, glancing at his clothes. 

Sir Timothy crossed the lawn, swinging his tennis racket and smiling. 

"Delighted to see you, " he said. "I'd have asked you to come up for agame of tennis if I'd thought you'd have cared for it. Had an idea you'dbe busy all day, and would rather dress at your own place. Hullo, youare dressed! A bit early, isn't it? But I'm delighted to see you. "

Sir Archibald stepped slowly from the car. Men who undertake the taskof governing Ireland must expect to find themselves looking like foolsoccasionally. But it is doubtful whether any turn of the political oradministrative machine can make a man look as foolish as he feels when, elaborately dressed in evening clothes, he is suddenly set down ona sunny lawn in the middle of a group of people suitably attired fortennis. Sir Archibald, puzzled and annoyed, turned to Mr. Courtney witha frown. 

"He said half-past seven, " said Mr. Courtney. 

"I'm delighted to see you now or at any time, but, as a matter of fact, it's only half-past five, " said Sir Timothy. 

Sir Archibald looked at his watch. 

"It's--surely my watch can't have gained two hours?"

"It's half-past seven, " said Mr. Courtney, firmly. 

"Oh, no it isn't, " said Sir Timothy. "I don't dine by Act ofParliament. "

Sir Archibald frowned angrily. 

"We'd better go home again, " he said. "We mustn't interrupt the tennis. "

He climbed stiffly into the motor. 

"I suppose, " he said to Mr. Courtney a few minutes later, "that this issome kind of Irish joke. "

Mr. Courtney explained, elaborately and fully, Sir Timothy's peculiarviews about time. 

"If I'd known, " said Sir Archibald, "that you were taking me to dinewith a lunatic, I should not have agreed to go. "

Mr. Courtney recognized that his chances of promotion to a pleasantpost in Dublin had vanished. The Irish Government had no use for men whoplace their superiors in embarrassing positions. 

XII ~~ UNITED IRELAND

"I'll say this for old MacManaway, an honester man never lived nor whathe was; and I'm sorry he's gone, so I am. "

The speaker was Dan Gallaher. The occasion was the morning of theauction of old MacManaway's property. The place was the yard behind thefarmhouse in which MacManaway had lived, a solitary man, without wife orchild, for fifty years. Dan Gallaher held the hames of a set of harnessin his hand as he spoke and critically examined the leather of thetraces. It was good leather, sound and well preserved. Old MacManawaywhile alive liked sound things and took good care of his property. 

"An honester man never lived, " Dan repeated "And I'm not saying thatbecause the old man and me agreed together, for we didn't. "

"How could you agree?" said James McNiece. "It wasn't to be expectedthat you would agree. There wasn't a stronger Protestant nor a greaterOrangeman in the whole country nor old MacManaway. "

James McNiece turned from the examination of a cart as he spoke and gavehis attention to the hames. His description of the dead man's religiousand political convictions was just. No one in all the Ulster border landever held the principle of the Orange Society more firmly or opposed anyform of Home Rule more bitterly than old MacManaway. 

And Dan Gallaher was a Roman Catholic and a Nationalist of the extremestkind. 

"They tell me, " said Dan Gallaher, in a pleasant conversational tone, "that it's to be yourself, James McNiece, that's to be the head of theOrangemen in the parish now that MacManaway is gone. "

James looked at him sideways out of the corners of his eyes. Dan spokein a friendly tone, but it is never wise to give any information to"Papishes and rebels. "

"The Colonel, " he said, "is the Grand Master of the Orangemen in theseparts. "

Colonel Eden, a J. P. , and the principal landlord in the parish, droveinto the yard in his motor. A police sergeant slipped his pipe into hispocket, stepped forward and took the number of the Colonel's car. It hasnever been decided in Ireland whether motor cars may or may not be used, under the provisions of D. O. R. A. , for attending auctions. 

We know that the safety of the empire is compromised by driving to arace meeting. We know that the King and his Army are in no way injuredby our driving to market. Attendance at an auction stands midwaybetween pleasure and business; and the use of motors in such matters isdebatable. 

"It's the D. I's orders, sir, " said the sergeant apologetically. 

"All right, " said the Colonel, "but if the D. I. Expects me to finemyself at the next Petty Sessions hell be disappointed. "

James McNiece and Dan Gallaher touched their hats to the Colonel. 

"Morning, James, " said the Colonel. "Morning, Dan. Fine day for thesale, and a good gathering of people. I don't know that I ever saw abigger crowd at an auction. "

He looked round as he spoke. The whole parish and many people fromoutside the parish had assembled. The yard was full of men, handling andappraising the outdoor effects. Women passed in and out of the house, poked mattresses with their fingers, felt the fabrics of sheets andcurtains, examined china and kitchen utensils warily. 

"There's the doctor over there, " said the Colonel, "looking at thestable buckets, and who's that young fellow in the yellow leggings, James?"

"I'm not rightly sure, " said James McNiece, "but I'm thinking he'll bethe new D. I. From Curraghfin. "

"It is him, " said Dan Gallaher. "I was asking the sergeant this minuteand he told me. What's more he said he was a terrible sharp youngfellow. "

"That won't suit you, Dan, " said the Colonel. "You and your friends willhave to be a bit careful before you get up another rebellion. "

"It may not suit me, " said Dan, "but there's others it won't suiteither. Didn't I see the sergeant taking the number of your motor, Colonel, and would he be doing the like of that if the new D. I. Hadn'ttold him?"

The Colonel laughed. As commander of a battalion of the Ulster VolunteerForce, he was fully prepared to meet Dan Gallaher on the field ofbattle--Dan leading the National Volunteers. He looked forward withsomething like pleasure to the final settlement of the Home Rulequestion by the ordeal of battle. In the meanwhile he and Dan Gallaherby no means hated each other, and were occasionally in full sympathywhen the police or some ridiculous Government department made trouble byfussy activity. 

Mr. Robinson, the auctioneer, drove up in his dogcart. He touched hishat to Colonel Eden, gave an order to his clerk and crossed the yardbriskly. He twisted the cigarette he smoked into the corner of his mouthwith deft movements of his lips, waved his hand to various acquaintancesand looked round him with quick, cheerful glances. No man in the countrywas quicker to appreciate the financial worth of a crowd. He knew beforea single bid was made whether people were in a mood to spend lavishly. He found himself very well satisfied with the prospect of thisparticular auction. The stuff he had to sell, indoors and out, was good. The farmers were enjoying a prosperous season. They had money in theirpockets which they would certainly want to spend. Mr. Robinson hadvisions of a percentage, his share of the proceeds, running into threefigures. 

He began work in a corner of the yard with a cross-cut saw. The biddingrose merrily to a point slightly higher than the cost of a similar sawnew in a shop. At 23/6 Mr. Robinson knocked it down to a purchaser whoseemed well satisfied. A number of small articles, scythes, barrows, spades, were sold rapidly, Mr. Robinson moving round the yard fromouthouse to outhouse, surrounded by an eager crowd which pressed on him. His progress was not unlike that of a queen bee at swarming time. Hemade--as she makes--short flights, and always at the end of them foundhimself in the centre of a cluster of followers. 

At about half-past twelve Mr. Robinson reached his most important lot. He lit a fresh cigarette--his eighth--before putting up for sale a rickof hay. 

"About four tons, " said Mr. Robinson, "new meadow hay, well saved, savedwith not a drop of rain. Gentlemen, I needn't tell you that this is arare, under existing conditions, a unique opportunity. Hay--you knowthis better than I do--is at present unobtainable in the ordinary marketNow, don't disappoint me, gentlemen. Let me have a reasonable offer. Thirty pounds. Did I hear some one say fifteen pounds? Less than fourpounds a ton! Now, gentlemen, really----"

But the crowd in front of Mr. Robinson knew just as well as he did thatfour pounds a ton is not a reasonable offer. The bids succeeded eachother rapidly. The original fifteen pounds changed to twenty pounds, then to twenty-five, rose a little more slowly to thirty pounds. Atthirty-two pounds the bidding hesitated. Mr. Robinson, dropping hiscigarette from his mouth, urged his clients on with gusts of eloquence. There was a short spurt The bids rose by five shillings at a time andfinally stopped dead at thirty-four pounds. The hay was sold at a littleover eight pounds a ton. Public interest, roused to boiling point by thesale of a whole rick of hay, cooled down a little when Mr. Robinson wenton to the next lot on his list. 

"Gentlemen, " he said, "I am now offering the hay stored in the loftabove the stable. A small lot, gentlemen, but prime hay. I offer noguarantee as to the quantity in the loft; but I should guess it atanything between ten and fifteen hundred-weight. "

Several of the more important farmers drew out of the crowd whichsurrounded Mr. Robinson. It was not worth while bidding for so small aquantity of hay. Other members of the crowd, feeling that a breathingspace had been granted them, took packets of sandwiches from theirpockets and sat down in one of the outhouses to refresh themselves. Mr. Robinson viewed the diminishing group of bidders with somedisappointment. He was gratified to see that the new police officer fromCurraghfin, a gentleman who had not so far made a single bid, crossedthe yard and took a place on the steps leading to the loft. ColonelEden, too, appeared interested in the new lot of hay. If the inspectorof police and Colonel Eden began to bid against each other the hay mightrealize a good price. 

"Now, gentlemen, " said Mr. Robinson, "shall we make a start with threepounds?"

He glanced at Colonel Eden, then at the police officer. Neithergentleman made any sign of wishing to bid. It was James McNiece who madethe first offer. 

"Two pounds, " he said. 

There was a pause. 

"Two pounds, " said Mr. Robinson, "two pounds. Going at two pounds. You're not going to let this hay, --more than half a ton of it--go at twopounds. "

He looked appealingly at Colonel Eden and at the police officer. Theywere entirely unresponsive. 

"And at two pounds, going----" said Mr. Robinson. 

"Two-ten, " said Dan Gallaher, in a quiet voice. 

"Two-fifteen, " said James McNiece. 

Dan Gallaher, still apparently bored by the proceedings, raised theprice another five shillings. James McNiece went half a crown further. Dan Gallaher, becoming slightly interested, made a jump to three poundsten. McNiece, with an air of finality, bid four pounds. The contestbegan to attract attention. When the price rose to five pounds interestbecame lively, and those who had drawn out of the group round Mr. Robinson began to dribble back. It seemed likely that the contestwas one of those, not uncommon at Irish auctions, into which personalfeelings enter largely and the actual value of the article sold islittle considered. There was a certain piquancy about a struggle of thiskind between a prominent Orangeman like James McNiece, and Dan Gallaher, whom everyone knew to be the leader of the Sinn Fein party. 

Interest developed into actual excitement when the price rose to tenpounds. A half ton of hay never is and never has been worth ten pounds. But ten pounds was by no means the final bid. 

"Mr. McNiece, " said Mr. Robinson, "the bid is against you. "

"Guineas, " said McNiece. 

"Eleven, " said Dan Gallaher. 

"Guineas, " said McNiece. 

The duet went on, McNiece capping Gallaher's pounds with a monotonousrepetition of the word guineas until the price rose to twenty pounds. At that point McNiece faltered for a moment. The auctioneer, watchingkeenly, saw him turn half round and look at Colonel Eden. The Colonelnodded slightly, so slightly that no one except Mr. Robinson and McNiecehimself saw the gesture. 

"At twenty pounds, " said Mr. Robinson, "going, and at twenty pounds----"

"Thirty, " said McNiece. 

The crowd of watchers gasped audibly. This was something outside of allexperience. A man might willingly pay a few shillings, even a pound, too much for the sake of getting the better of an opponent; but to givethirty pounds for half a ton of hay--not even the natural enmity of anOrangeman for a Sinn Feiner would account for such recklessness. 

"Guineas, " said Dan Gallaher. 

It was his turn to say guineas now, and he repeated the word withoutfaltering until the price rose to fifty pounds. Mr. Robinson tookoff his hat and wiped the sweat from his forehead. Never in all hisexperience of auctions had he heard bidding like this. He lit a freshcigarette, holding the match in fingers which trembled visibly. 

"You will understand, gentlemen, that I am only selling the hay, not thebarn or the stable. "

"Guineas, " said Dan Gallaher. 

It was the last bid. As he made it Colonel Eden turned and walked outof the group round the auctioneer. James McNiece took his pipe from hispocket and filled it slowly. 

"The hay is yours, Mr. Gallaher, " said the auctioneer. 

Dan Gallaher, having secured the hay, left the yard. He found his horse, which he had tethered to a tree, and mounted. He rode slowly down therough lane which led from the farm. At the gate leading to the high roadthe police sergeant stopped him. 

"If you wouldn't mind waiting a minute, Mr. Gallaher, " said thesergeant, "the D. I. Would like to speak to you. "

"What about?" said Gallaher. 

The sergeant winked ponderously. 

"It might be, " he said, "about the hay you're just after buying. "

"If he wants it, " said Gallaher, "he can have it, and I'll deliver it tohim at his own home at half the price I paid for it. "

The District Inspector, smiling and tapping his gaiters with a ridingswitch, explained in a few words that he did not want the hay and didnot intend to pay for it. 

"I'm taking over the contents of that loft, " he said, "in the name ofthe Government under the provisions of D. O. R. A. "

"I don't know, " said Gallaher, "that you've any right to be taking overwhat I've bought in that kind of way, and what's more you'll not beable to do it without you show me a proper order in writing, signed by amagistrate. "

"If I were you, " said the D. I. , "I wouldn't insist on any kind of legaltrial about that hay. At present there's no evidence against you, Mr. Gallaher, except that you paid a perfectly absurd price for some haythat you didn't want, and I'm not inclined to press the matter nowI've got what I wanted; but if you insist on dragging the matter intoCourt----"

"I do not, " said Gallaher. 

At ten o'clock that evening Dan Gallaher and James McNiece sat togetherin the private room behind the bar of Sam Twining's public-house. Thehouse was neutral ground used by Orangemen and Nationalists alike, aconvenient arrangement, indeed a necessary arrangement, for there was noother public-house nearer than Curraghfin. 

"Dan, " said James McNiece, "I'm an Orangeman and a Protestant and aloyalist, and what I've always said about Home Rule and always will sayis this:--We'll not have it and to Hell with the rebels. But I'm tellingyou now I'd rather you had them, papist and rebel and all as you are, than see them swept off that way by the police. And what's more, I'mnot the only one says that. The Colonel was talking to me after heheard what happened, and what he said was this--'The Government of thiscountry, ' said he, meaning the police, 'is a disgrace to civilization. '"

"Give me your hand, James McNiece, " said Gallaher. "Let me shake yourhand to show there's no ill feeling about the way I bid against you atthe sale to-day. "

McNiece laid down the glass of whisky which he was raising to his lipsand stretched out his hand. Gallaher grasped it and held it. 

"Tell me this now, James McNiece, " he said, "for it's what I was neversure of--How many was there behind that hay?"

McNiece looked round him carefully and made sure that no third personcould hear him. Neglecting no precaution he sank his voice to a whisper. 

"Twenty rifles, " he said, "of the latest pattern, the same as thesoldiers use, and four hundred rounds of ball cartridge. "

"Gosh, " said Gallaher, "but we'd have done great work with them. Eitheryour lads or mine, James McNiece, would have done great work with them. But, sure, what's the use of talking? The police has them now. "

"Damn the police, " said James McNiece. 

XIII ~~ OLD BIDDY AND THE REBELS

The other servants--there were four of them--spoke of her as "theould cat" or in moments of extreme exasperation "that divil BiddyO'Halloran. " When they spoke to her they called her "Mrs. O'Halloran, "or even "Mrs. O'Halloran, ma'am. " Even Lady Devereux, though nominalmistress of the house, did not dare to call her "Biddy, " She would assoon have addressed an archbishop as "Dickie, " if, indeed, there is anarch-bishop whose Christian name is Richard. There is probably nota woman anywhere, however brave, who would venture to speak to Mrs. O'Halloran face to face and call her "Biddy. " But a man, especially ifhe be young and good-looking, is in a different case. Harry Devereuxcalled her "Biddy. " He had earned the right to be familiar with hisaunt's cook. 

As a schoolboy Harry spent most of his holidays at his aunt's housein Dublin, and in those days Mrs. O'Halloran used to box his ears andoccasionally spank him. When he grew to be a man and was called in duecourse to the Irish Bar, he was often at his aunt's house and stillvisited Mrs. O'Halloran in her kitchen. She gave up smacking him butshe still called him "Master Harry, " After the outbreak of war HarryDevereux became a Second Lieutenant in the Wessex Regiment. He displayedhimself in his uniform to his aunt, who admired his appearance in herplacid way. He also showed himself to Mrs. O'Halloran, who snubbed himsharply. 

"So it's fighting you're for now, Master Harry, " she said. "Well, it'swhat'll suit you. It's my opinion that you're never out of mischief onlywhen you're in something worse. It is that way with you as long asI know you and that's since you were born or pretty near. It's theGermans, is it? Well, I'm sorry for them Germans if there's many likeyou going to be soldiers. "

Harry took this as a compliment It was his hope that the Germans wouldbe sorry for themselves when he got out to France with his platoon ofWessex men. 

After dinner. Molly, the parlourmaid, her day's work ended, becamesentimental. She said it was a terrible thing to think of all the finemen that would be killed, and maybe young Mr. Devereux among them. Mrs. O'Halloran checked her flow of feeling. 

"Is it Master Harry be killed? Talk sense, can't you? Sure you couldn'tkill the like of that one. Haven't I seen him, not once but a dozentimes, climbing out on the roof of the house and playing himself to andfro among the chimneys. If that wasn't the death of him, and him notmore than twelve years old at the time, is it likely the Germans wouldbe able to kill him? The like of him is the same as fleas that you'dbe squeezing with your finger and thumb or maybe drowning in a basinof water. You know well they'd be hopping over you after the same asbefore. "

Molly sniffed. It was not wise to argue with "Ould Biddy, " who had atalent for forcible speech. 

Mrs. O'Halloran had the best right in the world to the free use ofher tongue. She was a really good cook. She had satisfied Sir JosephDevereux while he lived. She satisfied Lady Devereux afterwards. AndLady Devereux appreciated good cooking. Her husband dead, her threedaughters safely married, she had leisure to enjoy eating and had moneyenough to pay for the best which the Dublin markets provided. Next togood food Lady Devereux valued peace and the absence of worry. Mrs. O'Halloran enjoyed strife and liked a strenuous life. She took all theannoyances of the household on herself, and when they proved too few forher, created unnecessary worry for herself by harassing the maids. LadyDevereux slept untroubled at night, rose late in the morning, found allthings very much to her liking, and grew comfortably fat. 

For eight months of the year, from October till the end of May, LadyDevereux lived in one of the fine Georgian houses which are the glory ofthe residential squares of Dublin. It was a corner house, rather largerthan the others in the square, with more light and more air, because itsposition gave it a view up and down two streets as well as across thelawn which formed the centre of the square. 

Before the war Harry Devereux used to say that his aunt's house wasthe best in Dublin for a dance. It pained him to see its possibilitieswasted. After receiving his commission he looked at the world with theeye of a soldier and gave it as his opinion that the house occupiedthe finest strategic position in Dublin. There was not much chance ofpersuade ing plump old Lady Devereux to give a ball. There seemed evenless chance of her home ever being used as a fortress. But fate playsstrange tricks with us and our property, especially in Ireland. Ithappened that Lady Devereux' house was occupied more or less by thesoldiers of one army, and shot at with some vigour by the soldiers ofanother on Easter Monday, 1916. Oddly enough it was neither the rebelsnor the soldiers who earned credit by their military operations, but oldBiddy O'Halloran. 

Mrs. O'Halloran always enjoyed Bank holidays greatly. She did not goout, visit picture houses or parade the streets in her best clothes. Shefound a deeper and more satisfying pleasure in telling the younger maidswhat she thought of them when they asked and obtained leave to go outfor the afternoon, and in making scathing remarks about their frocks andhats as they passed through the kitchen to reach the area door. Onthat particular Easter Monday she was enjoying herself thoroughly. Akitchenmaid--she was new to the household or she would not have doneit--had asked Lady Devereux' permission to go out for the afternoon andevening. She got what she asked for. Everybody who asked Lady Devereuxfor anything got it as a matter of course. The kitchenmaid ought tohave made her application through Mrs. O'Halloran. It is the rule inall services that remote authorities must be approached only throughthe applicant's immediate superiors. Mrs. O'Halloran took her own way ofimpressing this on the kitchenmaid. 

"I suppose now, " she said, "that you'll be trapsing the streets ofDublin in the new pink blouse that you spent your last month's wageson?"

That was exactly what the kitchenmaid meant to do. Mrs. O'Halloranlooked the girl over critically. 

"I don't know, " she said, "that I ever seen a girl that would look worsein a pink blouse than yourself. The face that's on you is the colourof a dish of mashed turnips, and the pink blouse will make it worse, ifworse can be. "

The kitchenmaid was a girl of some spirit She felt inclined to cry, butshe pulled herself together and snorted instead. 

"I suppose, " said Mrs. O'Halloran, "that you'll be looking out for ayoung man to keep you company?"

The kitchenmaid did, in fact, hope to walk about with a young man; butshe denied this. 

"I'll be looking for no such thing, " she said. 

"It's well for you then, " said Mrs. O'Halloran, "for I'm thinking you'dlook a long while before you found one. It's very little sense men has, the best of them, but I never met one yet that hadn't more sense thanto go after a girl like you. If you were any good for any mortal thing aman might be content to marry you in spite of your face; but the wayyou are, not fit to darn your own stockings, let alone sew for a man, orcook the way he could eat what you put before him, it would be a queerone that would walk the same side of the street with you, pink blouse orno pink blouse. "

The kitchenmaid, though a girl of spirit, was still young. She waswashing potatoes in the scullery while Mrs. O'Halloran spoke to her. Twolarge tears dropped from her eyes into the sink. Mrs. O'Halloran smiled. 

Then Molly, the parlourmaid, flung open the kitchen door and rushed toMrs. O'Halloran. Her face was flushed with excitement and terror. Hereyes were staring. She was panting. Her nice frilly cap was over oneear. She held her apron crumpled into a ball and clutched tightly in herhand. 

"It's murdered we'll be, killed and murdered and worse! There's them inthe house with guns and all sorts that'll ruin and destroy everythingthat's in it The mistress is dead this minute and it's me they're afternow. What'll we do at all, at all?"

The kitchenmaid, stirred from her private grief by the news, left herpotatoes and came to the kitchen. She and Molly clung to each other. 

"It's the Sinn Feiners, " she said, "and they're out for blood. "

"Where's the police?" said Molly. "What good is the police that theywouldn't be here and us being murdered?"

"It's blood they want, " said the kitchenmaid, "and if s blood they'llhave. "

"Molly, " said Mrs. O'Halloran, "is there men in the house or is therenot? Stop your bawling now, and tell me. "

"There is, there is, " said Molly, "with guns and cannons and knives. Glory be to God, but I never thought to die this way. What'll we do atall, at all? Would it be any good hiding?"

Mrs. O'Halloran, with cool deliberation, shifted the position of twopots on the kitchen range. Then she wiped her hands on her apron. 

"It's your place to attend the door and not mine, Molly, " she said, "butif you're afeard. .. . "

She looked scornfully at the two girls and left the kitchen. 

In the hall a young man stood just inside the door on the mat. He worea greenish-grey uniform and carried a rifle. Across his chest wasa bandolier. He looked uncomfortable, like a man who finds himselfunexpectedly in a public place when wearing a fancy dress. The door waswide open. On the steps outside were two other young men. They also woreuniforms and carried rifles. 

"Now what may you be wanting?" said Mrs. O'Halloran. 

The man on the mat--he was really little more than a boy--fumbled in onepocket after another. 

His uniform, like that of the British soldier, had a good many pockets. Finally he drew out a sheet of paper. 

"This is my authority, " he said, "from the Provisional Government of theIrish Republic. "

He handed the paper to Mrs. O'Halloran. 

"If it's a collection you're making for the Irish Language Fund, " saidMrs. O'Halloran, "her ladyship gave half a crown last week to one ofyees, and she'll give no more, so you can take yourselves off out ofthis as quick as you like. "

"We are not collectors, " said the young man, with dignity. 

"Whether you are not, it's what you look, " said Mrs. O'Halloran, "dressed up in them clothes, with your toy guns and all. You ought to beashamed of yourselves. "

The suggestion that his rifle was not a real weapon roused the spirit ofthe young man. 

"In the name of the Irish Republic, " he said, "I take possession of thishouse for military purposes. "

"Musha, but that's fine talk, " said Mrs. O'Halloran. "Will nothing doyou, only military purposes?"

"We shall do no harm to the inmates or the contents of the house, " saidthe young man. 

"You will not, for you won't be let. "

"But I demand free entrance to the upper storeys for myself and my men. "

He turned to the two boys on the steps outside the door. 

"Enter, " he said, "and follow me. "

"Will you wipe your boots on the mat, " said Mrs. O'Halloran, "and notbe carrying all the mud of the streets into the house with you. Do youthink the girls that does be here has nothing to do only to be sweepingcarpets and polishing floors after the likes of you?"

The army of the Irish Republic has had many crimes laid to its charge;but it has not been said that its soldiers were guilty of any needlessdiscourtesy to the inhabitants of the houses of which they tookpossession. The three young men wiped their boots on Lady Devereux'doormat with elaborate cafe. Mrs. O'Halloran watched them critically. 

"Is it the police you're out after with them guns?" she said. "It's apity, so it is, to see fine young fellows like you mixing yourselvesup with that foolishness. Sure they'll get you at the latter end, andyou'll be had up in Court. "

The leader of the little party of Sinn Feiners was not inclined todiscuss the future prospects of the insurrection with Mrs. O'Halloran. He moved across the hall towards the staircase, followed by his twoyoung men. They walked delicately, stepping carefully from one toanother of the rugs which lay on the floor and avoiding the polishedboards. They were courteous and considerate rebels. 

"Will nothing but the front stairs suit you?" said Mrs. O'Halloran. "Cock you up, indeed, the likes of you, that never was in a lady's housebefore. The back stairs is good enough for me, so I'm thinking it's goodenough for you. Come along with you now. "

She led them past the foot of the great staircase and through a swingdoor covered with green baize. That door, such was the fancy of thedesigner of Lady Devereux' house, concealed another, a very solid door, made after the Georgian fashion, of thick mahogany. The baize-covereddoor had a spring on it so that it swung shut of itself. Mrs. O'Halloranheld it open with one hand. With the other she turned the handle of thesolid door beyond. 

"Will you come along now, " she said to the three young men, "and takecare you don't be scratching the polish off the door with them gunsyou're so proud of?"

They were foolish rebels, those three. They were young and, thoughIrish, this was the first time they had taken part in an insurrection. They had marched forth to garrison Lady Devereux' house expecting much, hand-to-hand fighting perhaps in the hall, the tears and hysterics ofterrified women, revolver shots from outraged loyalists. Anything ofthat sort, anything heroic they were prepared for. Old Biddy O'Halloran, with her humorous eyes and her ready tongue, took them aback. Theywalked through the mahogany door meekly enough. 

They found themselves in a small cloak room. There was a wash-hand basinand a couple of towels in one corner. A pile of carriage rugs lay on ashelf. Some waterproof coats hung from pegs. There were three umbrellasin a stand. There was one small window which looked out on a back yardand was heavily barred. There was not the smallest sign of a staircaseleading to the upper storey of the house or to anywhere else. 

A nervous and excitable woman who had trapped three young men would havemade haste to lock them in. Mrs. O'Halloran was in no hurry at all. Thekey of the mahogany door was on the inside of the lock. She took it outdeliberately. 

"There you stay, " she said, "the three of yous, till you've sense enoughto go back to your homes, and it's your mothers will be thankful to methis day for keeping you out of mischief. Listen to me now before I lockthe door. "

She fitted the key into the outside of the lock and half closed the doorwhile she spoke. 

"If I hear a word out of your heads or if there's any shooting of themguns, or if you start cracking and banging on that door, or kickingup any sort of a noise that might disturb her ladyship, I'll give youneither bite nor sup, not if I have to keep you here for a week, so begood now and mind what I'm telling you. "

She shut the door and turned the key in the lock. 

At the head of the kitchen stairs stood Molly and the kitchenmaid. 

"Will I run for the police?" said the kitchenmaid. "Sure I wouldn't beafeard to do it if Molly would come with me. "

"You'll run down to the scullery, " said Mrs. O'Halloran, "and you'llgo on washing them potatoes, and Molly along with you. That's all therunning either the one or the other of you will do this day. "

"Her ladyship's bell is ringing, " said Molly. "Will I not go to her? Itcould be she's not dead yet and might be wanting help. "

"It's little help you'd give her if she was wanting it, you with yourcap on your ear, instead of the top of your head, and your apron like awrung dishclout I wonder you're not ashamed to be seen. Get along withyou down to the kitchen and stay there. Anything that's wanted for herladyship I'll do myself. "

Lady Devereux was in her morning room, a pleasant sunny apartment whichlooked out on the square. The day was warm, but Lady Devereux was an oldwoman. She sat in front of a bright fire. She sat in a very deepsoft chair with her feet on a footstool. She had a pile of papers andmagazines on a little table beside her. She neither stirred nor lookedup when Mrs. O'Halloran entered the room. 

"Molly, " she said, "I heard some men talking in the hall. I wish theywouldn't make so much noise. "

Mrs. O'Halloran cleared her throat and coughed. Lady Devereux looked up. 

"Oh, " she said, "it's not Molly. It's you, Mrs. O'Halloran. Then Isuppose it must be plumbers. "

The inference was a natural one. Mrs. O'Halloran always dealt withplumbers when they came. She was the only person in the house who coulddeal with plumbers. 

"Or perhaps some men about the gas, " said Lady Devereux. "I hope theywon't want to come in here. "

The pleasant quiet life in Lady Devereux' house was occasionallybroken by visits from plumbers and gas men. No one, however wealthy oreasygoing, can altogether escape the evils which have grown up with ourcivilization. 

"It's not plumbers, my lady, " said Mrs. O'Halloran, "nor it isn't gasmen. It's Sinn Feiners. "

"Dear me, I suppose they want a subscription. My purse is on my writingtable, Mrs. O'Halloran. Will five shillings be enough? I think I oughtto give them something. I'm always so sorry for people who have to goround from house to house collecting. "

"I have the three of them in the cloakroom downstairs and the key turnedon them, " said Mrs. O'Halloran. 

It is quite possible that Lady Devereux might have expressed somesurprise at this drastic way of treating men, presumably well-meaningmen, who came to ask for money. Before she spoke again she was startledby the sound of several rifle shots fired in the street outside herhouse. She was not much startled, not at all alarmed. A rifle fired inthe open air at some distance does not make a very terrifying sound. 

"Dear me, " she said, "I wonder what that is. It sounds very likesomebody shooting. "

Mrs. O'Halloran went over to the window and opened it. There was anarrow iron balcony outside. She stepped on to it. 

"It's soldiers, my lady, " she said. "They're in the square. "

"I suppose it must be on account of the war, " said Lady Devereux. 

She had learned--before Easter, 1916, everybody had learned--to put downall irregularities to the war. Letters got lost in the post. The priceof sugar rose. Men married unexpectedly, "on account of the war. "

"But I don't think they ought to be allowed to shoot in the square, " sheadded. "It might be dangerous. "

It was dangerous. A bullet--it must have passed very close to Mrs. O'Halloran--buried itself in the wall of the morning room. A momentlater another pierced a mirror which hung over Lady Devereux' writingtable. Mrs. O'Halloran came into the room again and shut the window. 

"You'd think now, " she said "that them fellows were shooting at thehouse. "

"I wish you'd go down and tell them to stop, " said Lady Devereux. "Ofcourse I know we ought to do all we can to help the soldiers, suchgallant fellows, suffering so much in this terrible war. Still I dothink they ought to be more careful where they shoot. "

Mrs. O'Halloran went quietly down the two flights of stairs which ledfrom the morning-room to the ground floor of the house. She had no ideaof allowing herself to be hustled into any undignified haste either byrebels or troops engaged in suppressing the rebellion. When she reachedthe bottom of the stairs she stopped. Her attention was held by twodifferent noises. The Sinn Feiners were battering the door of theirprison with the butts of their rifles. Molly, the kitchenmaid and LadyDevereux' two other servants were shrieking on the kitchen stairs. Mrs. O'Halloran dealt with the rebels first. She opened the baize-covereddoor and put her mouth to the keyhole of the other. 

"Will yous keep quiet or will yous not?" she said. "There's soldiersoutside the house this minute waiting for the chance to shoot you, andthey'll do it, too, if you don't sit down and behave yourselves. Maybeit's that you want. If it is you're going the right way about gettingit. But if you've any notion of going home to your mothers with yourskins whole you'll stay peaceable where you are. Can you not hear theguns?"

The three rebels stopped battering the door and listened. The rifle firebegan to slacken. No more than an occasional shot was to be heard. Thefighting had died down. It was too late for the prisoners to take anyactive part in it. They began to consider the future. They made up theirminds to take the advice given them and stay quiet. 

Mrs. O'Halloran went to the head of the kitchen stairs. The four maidswere huddled together. Mrs. O'Halloran descended on them. She tookMolly, who was nearest to her, by the shoulders and shook her violently. The housemaid and Lady Devereux' maid fled at once to the coal cellar. The kitchenmaid sat down and sobbed. 

"If there's another sound out of any of yous, " said Mrs. O'Halloran, "it'll be the worse for you after. Isn't it enough for one day tohave three young fellows in the house trying to get shot, and soldiersoutside trying to shoot them, and every sort of divilment in the way ofa row going on, without having a pack of girls bellowing and bawlingon the kitchen stairs? It's mighty fond you are, the whole of you, of dressing yourselves up, in pink blouses and the like" (she lookedangrily at the kitchenmaid) "and running round the streets to see ifyou can find a man to take up with you. And now when there's men enoughoutside and in, nothing will do but to be screeching. But sure girls islike that, and where's the use of talking?"

Mrs. O'Halloran might have said more. She felt inclined to say a gooddeal more but she was interrupted by a loud knocking at the hall door. 

"I dursent go to it. " said Molly. "I dursent You wouldn't know who mightbe there nor what they might do to you. "

"Nobody's asking you to go, " said Mrs. O'Halloran. 

She went to the door herself and opened it. A sergeant and eight menwere on the steps. 

"And what may you be wanting?" said Mrs. O'Halloran. "What right haveyou to come battering and banging at the door of her ladyship's housethe same as if it was a public-house and you trying to get in afterclosing time? Be off out of this, now, the whole of you. I never seensuch foolishness. "

"My orders are to search the house, " said the sergeant; "rebels havebeen firing on us from the roof. "

"There's no rebels been firing out of this house, " said Mrs. O'Halloran, "and what's more----"

"My orders, " said the sergeant. 

"There's no orders given in this house, " said Mrs. O'Halloran, "onlymine and maybe her ladyship's at odd times. "

She need scarcely have mentioned Lady Devereux. An order from her was avery exceptional thing. 

"Our officer----" said the sergeant "Private Beggs, go and report to theofficer that we are refused admission to this house. "

Private Beggs turned to obey the order. The officer in charge of theparty came out of the door of a house half-way along the side of thesquare. Mrs. O'Halloran recognised him. It was Second Lieutenant HarryDevereux. 

"Master Harry, " she called, "Master Harry, come here at once. Is it youthat's been raising ructions about the square? Shooting and destroyingand frightening decent people into fits? Faith, I might have known itwas you. If there's divilment going you'd be in it. "

Harry Devereux, intensely conscious of his responsibility as commanderof men in a real fight, reached the bottom of the steps which led to hisaunt's door. 

"Enter the house, sergeant, " he said, "and search it. "

Mrs. O'Halloran stood right in the middle of the doorway. The sergeantlooked at her doubtfully and hesitated. 

"Come up out of that, Master Harry, " said Mrs. O'Halloran, "and don'tbe trying to hide behind the sergeant. It's no wonder you're ashamed ofyourself, but I see you plain enough. Come here now till I talk to you. "

The sergeant grinned. Private Beggs, who was behind his officer, laughedopenly. 

"Was there nowhere else in the world for you to have a battle--if abattle was what you wanted, " said Mrs. O'Halloran, "only in front ofyour aunt's house? Many and many's the time I've smacked you for lessthan what you've done to-day. Isn't there bullets in her ladyship'smorning-room? Isn't there a grand looking-glass in a gold frame gone tosmithers with your shooting? Isn't Molly and the other girls screechingthis minute down in the coal cellar, for fear you'll kill them, and nownothing will do you seemingly only to be tramping all over the house. Search it, moya, search it! But you'll not be let, Master Harry; neitheryou nor the sergeant nor any of the rest of you. "

Second Lieutenant Harry Devereux pulled himself together and made aneffort to save what was left of his dignity. He had led his men acrossthe square under a shower of rebel bullets from the roofs of the houses. He had taken cool advantage of all possible cover. He had directed hismen's fire till he drove the rebels from their shelters. No one couldsay of him that he was other than a gallant officer. But his heartfailed him when he was face to face with his aunt's cook. 

"I think we needn't search this house, sergeant, " he said. "I know it. "

"If you'd like to come back in an hour or two, Master Harry, " said Mrs. O'Halloran, "I'll have a bit of dinner ready for you, and I wouldn't saybut there might be something for the sergeant and his men. It's what herladyship is always saying that we ought to do the best we can for thelads that's fighting for us against the Germans--so long as they behavethemselves. But mind this now, sergeant, if you do look in in the courseof the evening there must be no carrying on with the girls. The Lordknows they're giddy enough without you upsetting them worse. "

That night, after dark, three young Sinn Feiners climbed the wall at theend of Lady Devereux' back yard and dropped into a narrow lane beyondit. A fortnight later Mrs. O'Halloran received a large parcel containingthree suits of clothes, the property of Second Lieutenant Devereux, leftby him in his aunt's house when he first put on his uniform. They werecarefully brushed and folded, in no way the worse for having been wornby strangers for one night. 

In the bottom of Mrs. O'Halloran's trunk there are three rebel uniforms. And on the top of the cupboard in her room are three rifles, made inGermany. 

XIV ~~ CIVILIZED WAR

"This, " said Captain Power, "is an utterly rotten war. "

The rain was dripping through the roof of the shed which had beenallotted to Power as a billet The mud outside was more than ankle deep. The damp inside was chilly and penetrating. Ned Waterhouse, a SecondLieutenant, the only other occupant of the shed, looked up from an oldnewspaper which he was trying to read. 

"All wars are rotten, " he said. 

"Not at all, " said Power; "a properly conducted war, run in a decent wayby civilized men is quite agreeable, rather fun, in fact. Now the lastin which I was mixed up was rather fun. "

Waterhouse eyed Power suspiciously. He suspected that he was being madethe victim of some kind of joke. Waterhouse was an Englishman and itwas not of his own desire that he was an officer in the Hibernian lightInfantry. He felt himself out of place among Irishmen whom he neverquite understood. He was particularly distrustful of Captain Power. Power was an expert in the art of "pulling the legs" of innocent people. Waterhouse had several times found himself looking like a fool withoutknowing exactly why. 

"What I call a civilized war, " said Power, "is waged in fine weather forone thing, and men have a chance of keeping clean. The combatants showsome regard for the other side's feelings and don't try to makethings as nasty for each other as they can. The business is done ina picturesque way, with flags and drums and speeches. There arenegotiations and flags of truce and mutual respect for gallantfoemen--instead of this d____d coldblooded, scientific slaughter. "

"No war was ever like that, " said Waterhouse. "Novelists and other sillyfools write about war as if it were a kind of sport. But it never wasreally. "

"The last war I was in, was, " said Power. 

"I don't believe you ever were in a war before, " said Waterhouse. "You're not old enough to have gone to South Africa. "

"All the same I was in a war, " said Power, "though I didn't actuallyfight. I was wounded at the time and couldn't But I was there. Our Irishwar at Easter, 1916. "

"That footy little rebellion, " said Waterhouse. 

"You may call it what you like, " said Power, "but it was a much betterwar than this one from every point of view, except mere size. It wasproperly conducted on both sides. "

"I suppose you want to tell a yarn about it, " said Waterhouse, "and ifyou do I can't stop you; but you needn't suppose I'll believe a word yousay. "

"The truth of this narrative, " said Power, "will compel belief even inthe most sceptical mind. I happened to be at home at the time on sickleave, wounded in the arm. Those were the days when one got monthsof sick leave, before some rotten ass invented convalescent homes forofficers and kept them there. I had three months' leave that time and Ispent it with my people in Ballymahon. "

"The whole of it?" said Waterhouse. "Good Lord!"

"You'd have spent it in the Strand Palace Hotel, I suppose, running inand out of music halls, but I prefer the simple joys of country life, though I couldn't shoot or ride properly on account of my arm. Still Icould watch the sunset and listen to the birds singing, which I like. Besides, I was absolutely stoney at the time, and couldn't have stayedin London for a week. As it happened, it was a jolly good thing I wasthere. If I'd been in London I'd have missed that war. Perhaps I'dbetter begin by telling you the sort of place Ballymahon is. "

"You needn't, " said Waterhouse. "I spent three months in camp in CountyTipperary. I know those dirty little Irish towns. Twenty public-houses. Two churches, a workhouse and a police barrack. "

"In Ballymahon there is also a court house and our ancestral home. Myold dad is the principal doctor in the neighbourhood. He lives on oneside of the court house. The parish priest lives on the other. Youmust grasp these facts in order to understand the subsequent militaryoperations. The only other thing you really must know is that Ballymahonlies in a hole with hills all round it, like the rim of a saucer. Well, on Monday afternoon, Easter Monday, the enemy, that is to say, theSinn Feiners, marched in and took possession of the town. It was a mostimposing sight, Waterhouse. There were at least eight hundred of them. Lots of them had uniforms. Most of them had flags. There were two bandsand quite a lot of rifles. The cavalry----"

"You can't expect me to believe in the cavalry, " said Waterhouse. ''ButI say, supposing they really came, didn't the loyal inhabitants put upany kind of resistance?"

"My old dad, " said Power, "was the only loyal inhabitant, except fourpolicemen. You couldn't expect four policemen to give battle to a wholearmy. They shut themselves up in their barrack and stayed there. My dad, being a doctor, was of course a non-combatant I couldn't do anythingwith my arm in a sling, so there was no fight at all. "

"I suppose the next thing they did was loot the public-houses, " saidWaterhouse, "and get gloriously drunk?"

"Certainly not I told you that our war was properly conducted. There wasno looting in Ballymahon and I never saw a drunken man the whole time. If those Sinn Feiners had a fault it was over-respectability. I shouldn'tcare to be in that army myself. "

"I believe that, " said Waterhouse. "It's the first thing in this storythat I really have believed. "

"They used to march about all day in the most orderly manner, and atnight there were sentries at every street corner who challenged you inIrish. Not knowing the language, I thought it better to stay indoors. But my dad used to wander about He's a sporting old bird and likes toknow what's going on. Well, that state of things lasted three days andwe all began to settle down comfortably for the summer. Except thatthere were no newspapers or letters there wasn't much to complain about. In fact, you'd hardly have known there was a war on. It wasn't the leastlike this beastly country where everyone destroys everything he sees, and wretched devils have to live in rabbit-holes. In Ballymahon we livedin houses with beds and chairs and looked after ourselves properly. Then one morning--it must have been Friday--news came in that a lot ofsoldiers were marching on the town. Some country girls saw them and camerunning in to tell us. I must say for the Sinn Fein commander that hekept his head. His name was O'Farrelly and he called himself a Colonel. He sent out scouts to see where the soldiers were and how many therewere. Quite the proper thing to do. I didn't hear exactly what thescouts reported; but that evening O'Farrelly came round to our house totalk things over with my dad. "

"I thought you said your father was a loyal man. "

"So he is. There isn't a loyaller man in Ireland. You'd know that ifyou'd ever seen him singing 'God Save the King. ' He swells out an inchall over when he's doing it. "

"If he's as loyal as all that, " said Waterhouse, "he wouldn't consultwith rebels. "

"My dad, though loyal, has some sense, and so, as it happened, hadO'Farrelly. Neither one nor the other of them wanted to see a battlefought in the streets of Ballymahon. You've seen battles, Waterhouse, and you know what they're like. Messy things. You can understand myfather's feelings. O'Farrelly was awfully nice about it. He said thatthe people of Ballymahon, including my father and even the police, werea decent lot, and he'd hate to see licentious English soldiers riotingthrough the streets of the town. His idea was that my dad should use hisinfluence with the C. O. Of the troops and get him to march his men offsomewhere else, so as to avoid unnecessary bloodshed. O'Farrelly promisedhe wouldn't go after them or molest them in any way if they left theneighbourhood My dad said he couldn't do that and even if he could, he wouldn't. He suggested that O'Farrelly should take his army away. O'Farrelly said he was out to fight and not to run away. I chipped inat that point and said he could fight just as well in a lonelier place, where there weren't any houses and no damage would be done. I said Ifelt pretty sure the soldiers would go after him to any bog he chose toselect O'Farrelly seemed to think there was something in the suggestionand said he'd hold a council of war and consult his officers. "

"What an amazing liar you are, Power, " said Waterhouse. 

Captain Power took no notice of the insult. He went on with his story. 

"The Council of War assembled next morning, " he said, "and sat for aboutfour hours. It might have all day if an English officer hadn't ridden inon a motor-bike about noon. He was stopped by a sentry, of course, and said he wanted to see the C. O. Of the rebel army. So the sentryblindfolded him----"

"What on earth for?"

"In civilized war, " said Power severely, "envoys with flags of truceare invariably blindfolded. I told you at the start that our war wasproperly conducted; but you wouldn't believe me. Now you can see foryourself that it was. The sentry led that officer into the council, which was sitting in the court house. I told you, didn't I, that thecourt house was the rebel H. Q. ?"

"You didn't mention it, but it doesn't matter. "

"It does matter. And you'll see later on it's most important Well, O'Farrelly was frightfully polite to the officer, and asked him what hewanted. The officer said that he had come to demand the unconditionalsurrender of the whole of the rebel army. O'Farrelly, still quitepolitely, said he'd rather die than surrender, and everybody presentcheered. The officer said that the town was entirely surrounded and thatthere was a gun on top of one of the hills which would shell the placeinto little bits in an hour if it started firing. O'Farrelly said hedidn't believe all that and accused the officer of putting up a bluff. The officer stuck to it that what he said was true. That brought thenegotiations to a dead-lock. "

"Why the devil didn't they shell the place and have done with it, instead of talking?"

"That's what would happen out here, " said Power. "But as I keep tellingyou our war was run on humane lines. After the officer and O'Farrellyhad argued for half an hour my dad dropped in on them. He's a popularman in the place and I think everyone was glad to see him. He sized upthe position at once and suggested the only possible way out O'Farrelly, with a proper safe conduct, of course, was to be allowed to go and seewhether the town was really surrounded, and especially whether therewas a gun on top of the hill, as the officer said. That, I think you'llagree with me, Waterhouse, was a sensible suggestion and fair to bothsides. But they both boggled at it. The officer said he'd no power toenter into negotiation of any kind with rebels, and that all he coulddo was take yes or no to his proposal of unconditional surrender. O'Farrelly seemed to think that he'd be shot, no matter what safeconducts he had. It took the poor old dad nearly an hour to talk senseinto the two of them; but in the end he managed it O'Farrelly agreed togo if the safe conduct was signed by my dad as well as the officer, and the officer agreed to take him on condition that my dad went too toexplain the situation to his colonel. I went with them just to see whatwould happen. "

"I suppose they made O'Farrelly prisoner?" said Waterhouse. 

"You are judging everybody by the standards of this infernal war, " saidPower. "That English colonel was a soldier and a gentleman. He stood usdrinks and let O'Farrelly look at the gun. It was there all right andBallymahon was entirely surrounded. We got back about five o'clock, withan ultimatum written out on a sheet of paper. Unless O'Farrelly and hiswhole army had marched out and laid down their arms by 8 p. M. The townwould be shelled without further warning. You'd have thought that wouldhave knocked the heart out of O'Farrelly, considering that he hadn't adog's chance of breaking through. But it didn't He became cheerfullerthan I'd seen him before, and said that the opportunity he'd alwayslonged for had come at last. His men, when he told them about theultimatum, took the same view. They said they'd never surrender, noteven if the town was shelled into dust and them buried in the ruins. That naturally didn't suit my dad--or for that matter, me. The soldierswere sure to begin by shelling the rebel H. Q. And that meant that they'dhit our house. I told you, didn't I, that it was next door to the courthouse? My poor dad did his best. He talked to O'Farrelly and the rest ofthem till the sweat ran off him. But it wasn't the least bit of good. They simply wouldn't listen to reason. It was seven o'clock before dadgave the job up and left the court house. He was going home to make hiswill, but on the way he met Father Conway, the priest He was a youngishman and a tremendous patriot, supposed to be hand-in-glove with therebels. Dad explained to him that he had less than an hour to live andadvised him to go home and bury any valuables he possessed before theshelling began. It took Father Conway about ten minutes to grasp thesituation. I chipped in and explained the bracket system on whichartillery works. I told him that they wouldn't begin by aiming at thecourt house, but would drop their first shell on his house and theirnext on ours, so as to get the range right. As soon as he believedthat--and I had to swear it was true before he did--he took the matterup warmly and said he'd talk to O'Farrelly himself. I didn't think he'ddo much good, but I went into the court house with him, just to see whathe'd say. I must say for him he wasted no time. It was a quarter pastseven when he began, so there wasn't much time to waste. "

"'Boys, ' he said, 'will you tell me straight and plain what is it youwant?' O'Farrelly began a long speech about an Irish republic and thingsof that kind. I sat with my watch in my hand opposite Father Conway andevery now and then I pointed to the hands, so as to remind him that timewas going on. At twenty-five past seven he stopped O'Farrelly andsaid they couldn't have an Irish republic just then--though they mightlater--on account of that gun. Then he asked them again to say exactlywhat they wanted, republics being considered a wash-out You'd have beensurprised if you heard the answer he got Every man in the place stood upand shouted that he asked nothing better than to die for Ireland. Theymeant it, too. I thought it was all up and Father Conway was done. Buthe wasn't. "

"'Who's preventing you?' he said. 'Just form fours in the square outsideand you'll all be dead in less than half an hour. But if you stay herea lot of other people who don't want to die for Ireland or anything elsewill be killed too; along with having their homes knocked down on them. '

"Well, they saw the sense of that. O'Farrelly formed his men up outsideand made a speech to them. He said if any man funked it he could staywhere he was and only those who really wanted to die need go on. It wasa quarter to eight when he finished talking and I was in terror of mylife that there'd be some delay getting rid of the men who fell out Butthere wasn't a single defaulter. Every blessed one of those men--andmost of them were only boys--did a right turn and marched out of thetown in column of fours. I can tell you, Waterhouse, I didn't likewatching them go. Father Conway and my dad were standing on the steps ofthe court house, blubbering like children. "

"I suppose they weren't all killed?" said Waterhouse. 

"None of them were killed, " said Power. "There wasn't a shot fired. You see, when the English officer saw them march out of the town henaturally thought they'd come to surrender, and didn't fire on them. "

"He couldn't possibly have thought that, " said Waterhouse, "unless theylaid down their arms. "

"As a matter of fact, " said Power, "hardly any of them had any arms, except hockey sticks, and the Colonel thought they'd piled them upsomewhere. He seems to have been a decent sort of fellow. He madeO'Farrelly and a few more prisoners, and told the rest of them to be offhome. "

"Ireland, " said Waterhouse, "must be a d____d queer country. "

"It's the only country in Europe, " said Power, "which knows how toconduct war in a civilized way. Now if a situation of that sort turnedup out here there'd be bloodshed. "

"I suppose O'Farrelly was hanged afterwards?" said Waterhouse. 

"No, he wasn't. "

"Shot, then? Though I should think hanging is the proper death for arebel. "

"Nor shot, " said Power. "He is alive still and quite well. He's goingabout the country making speeches. He was down in Ballymahon about afortnight ago and called on my dad to thank him for all he'd done duringthe last rebellion. He inquired after me in the kindest way. The old dadwas greatly touched, especially when a crowd of about a thousand men, all O'Farrelly's original army with a few new recruits, gathered roundthe house and cheered, first for an Irish republic and then for dad. He made them a little speech and told them I'd got my company and wasrecommended for the M. C. When they heard that they cheered me likeanything and then shouted 'Up the Rebels!' for about ten minutes. "

"I needn't tell you, " said Waterhouse, "that I don't believe a word ofthat story. If I did I'd say----"

He paused for a moment. 

"I'd say that Ireland----"

"Yes, " said Power, "that Ireland----"

"I'd say that Ireland is a country of lunatics, " said Waterhouse, "andthere ought to be an Irish Republic I can't think of anything to sayworse than that. "

XV ~~ THE MERMAID

We were on our way home from Inishmore, where we had spent two days;Peter O'Flaherty among his relatives--for everyone on the island was kinto him--I among friends who give me a warm welcome when I go to them. The island lies some seventeen miles from the coast We started on ourhomeward sail with a fresh westerly wind. Shortly after midday it backedround to the north and grew lighter. At five o'clock we were stealingalong very gently through calm water with our mainsail boom out againstthe shroud. The jib and foresail were drooping in limp folds. An hourlater the mainsheet was hanging in the water and the boat drifted withthe tide. Peter, crouching in the fore part of the cockpit, hissedthrough his clenched teeth, which is the way in which he whistles for awind. He glanced all round the horizon, searching for signs of a breeze. His eyes rested finally on the sun, which lay low among some light, fleecy clouds. He gave it as his opinion that when it reached the pointof setting it "might draw a light air after it from the eastward. "For that it appeared we were to wait I shrank from toil with the heavysweeps. So, I am sure did Peter, who is a good man in a boat but aversefrom unnecessary labour. And there was really no need to row. The tidewas carrying us homeward, and our position was pleasant enough. Savefor the occasional drag of a block against the horse we had achievedunbroken silence and almost perfect peace. 

We drifted slowly past Carrigeen Glos, a low, sullen line of rocks. Agroup of cormorants, either gorged with mackerel fry or hopeless of anevening meal, perched together at one end of the reef, and stared atthe setting sun. A few terns swept round and round overhead, soaring orsliding downwards with easy motion. A large seal lay basking on a barerock just above the water's edge. I pointed it out to Peter, and he saidit was a pity I had not got my rifle with me. I did not agree with him. If I had brought the rifle Peter would have insisted on my shooting atthe seal. I should certainly not have hit it on purpose, for I am aversefrom injuring gentle creatures; but I might perhaps have killed orwounded it by accident, for my shooting is very uncertain. In any caseI should have broken nature's peace, and made a horrible commotion. Perhaps the seal heard Peter's remark or divined his feeling ofhostility. It flopped across the rock and slid gracefully into the sea. We saw it afterwards swimming near the boat, looking at us with itscuriously human, tender eyes. 

"A man might mistake it for a mermaid, " I said. 

"He'd have to be a fool altogether that would do the like, " said Peter. 

He was scornful; but the seal's eyes were human. They made me think ofmermaids. 

"Them ones, " said Peter, "is entirely different from seals. You mightsee a seal any day in fine weather. They're plenty. But the otherones--But sure you wouldn't care to be hearing about them. "

"I've heard plenty about them, " I said, "but it was all poetry andnonsense. You know well enough, Peter, that there's no such thing as amermaid. "

Peter filled his pipe slowly and lit it I could see by the way he puffedat it that he was full of pity and contempt for my scepticism. 

"Come now, " I said: "did you ever see a mermaid?"

"I did not, " said Peter, "but my mother was acquainted with one. Thatwas in Inishmore, where I was born and reared. "

I waited. The chance of getting Peter to tell an interesting story is towait patiently. Any attempt to goad him on by asking questions is likestriking before a fish is hooked. The chance of getting either story orfish is spoiled. 

"There was a young fellow in the island them times, " said Peter, "calledAnthony O'Flaherty. A kind of uncle of my father's he was, and a veryfine man. There wasn't his equal at running or lepping, and they say hewas terrible daring on the sea. That was before my mother was born, butshe heard tell of what he did. When she knew him he was like an old man, and the heart was gone out of him. "

At this point Peter stopped. His pipe had gone out. He relit itwith immense deliberation. I made a mistake. By way of keeping theconversation going I asked a question. 

"Did he see a mermaid?"

"He did, " said Peter, "and what's more he married one. "

There Peter stopped again abruptly, but with an air of finality. He had, so I gathered, told me all he was going to tell me about the mermaid. Ihad blundered badly in asking my question. I suppose that some noteof unsympathetic scepticism in my tone suggested to Peter that I wasinclined to laugh at him. I did my best to retrieve my position. I satquite silent and stared at the peak of the mainsail. The block on thehorse rattled occasionally. The sun's rim touched the horizon. At lastPeter was reassured and began again. 

"It was my mother told me about it, and she knew, for many's the timeshe did be playing with the young lads, her being no more than a littlegirleen at the time. Seven of them there was, and the second eldest wasthe one age with my mother. That was after herself left him. "

"Herself" was vague enough; but I did not venture to ask anotherquestion. I took my eyes off the peak of the mainsail and fixed theminquiringly on Peter. It was as near as I dared go to asking a question. 

"Herself, " said Peter, "was one of them ones. "

He nodded sideways over the gunwale of the boat. The sea, though stillcalm, was beginning to be moved by that queer restlessness which comeson it at sunset. The tide eddied in mysteriously oily swirls. The rocksto the eastward of us had grown dim. A gull flew by overhead utteringwailing cries. The graceful terns had disappeared. A cormorant, flyingso low that its wing-tips broke the water, sped across our bows to somefar resting-place. I fell into a mood of real sympathy with storiesabout mermaids. I think Peter felt the change which had come over me. 

"Anthony O'Flaherty, " said Peter, "was a young man when he saw themfirst. It was in the little bay back west of the island, and my mothernever rightly knew what he was doing there in the middle of the night;but there he was. It was the bottom of a low spring tide, and there'srocks off the end of the bay that's uncovered at the ebb of the springs. You've maybe seen them. "

I have seen them, and Peter knew it well I have seen more of them thanI want to. There was an occasion when Peter and I lay at anchor in thatbay, and a sudden shift of wind set us to beating out at three o'clockin the morning. The rocks were not uncovered then, but the waves werebreaking fiercely over them. We had little room for tacking, and I amnot likely to forget the time we went about a few yards to windward ofthem. The stretch of wild surf under our lee looked ghastly white in thedim twilight of the dawn. Peter knew what I was thinking. 

"It was calm enough that night Anthony O'Flaherty was there, " he said, "and there was a moon shining, pretty near a full moon, so Anthonycould see plain. Well, there was three of them in it, and they playingthemselves. "

"Mermaids?"

This time my voice expressed full sympathy. The sea all round us wasrising in queer round little waves, though there was no wind. The boomsnatched at the blocks as the boat rocked The sail was ghostly white. The vision of a mermaid would not have surprised me greatly. 

"The beautifulest ever was seen, " said Peter, "and neither shift norshirt on them, only just themselves, and the long hair of them. Straightit was and black, only for a taste of green in it. You wouldn't bemaking a mistake between the like of them and seals, not if you'd seenthem right the way Anthony O'Flaherty did. "

Peter made this reflection a little bitterly. I was afraid therecollection of my unfortunate remark about seals might have stopped himtelling the story, but it did not. 

"Once Anthony had seen them, " he said, "he couldn't rest content withouthe'd be going to see them again. Many a night he went and saw neithersight nor light of them, for it was only at spring tides that they'd bethere, on account of the rocks not being uncovered any other time. But at the bottom of the low springs they were there right enough, andsometimes they'd be swimming in the sea and sometimes they'd be sittingon the rocks. It was wonderful the songs they'd sing--like the soundof the sea set to music was what my mother told me, and she was told bythem that knew. The people did be wondering what had come over Anthony, for he was different like from what he had been, and nobody knew whattook him out of his house in the middle of the night at the springtides. There was a girl that they had laid down for him to marry, andAnthony had no objection to her before he seen them ones; but afterhe had seen them he wouldn't look at the girl. She had a middling goodfortune too but sure he didn't care about that. "

I could understand Anthony's feelings. The air of wind which Peter hadpromised, drawn from its cave by the lure of the departing sun, wasfilling our head-sails. I hauled in the main-sheet gently hand over handand belayed it The boat slipped quietly along close-hauled. The longline of islands which guards the entrance of our bay lay dim before use. Over the shoulder of one of them I could see the lighthouse, still adistinguishable patch of white against the looming grey of the land. Thewater rippled mournfully under our bows and a long pale wake stretchedastern from our counter. "Fortune, " banked money, good heifers and evenenduringly fruitful fields seemed very little matters to me then. Theymust have seemed still less, far less, to Anthony O'Flaherty after hehad seen those white sea-maidens with their green-black hair. 

"There was a woman on the island in those times, " said Peter, "a veryaged woman, and she had a kind of plaster which she made which cured thecancer, drawing it out by the roots, and she could tell what was goodfor the chin cough, and the women did like to have her with them whentheir children was born, she being knowledgable in them matters. I'mtold the priests didn't like her, for there was things she knew which itmightn't be right that anyone would know, things that's better left tothe clergy. Whether she guessed what was the matter with Anthony, orwhether he up and told her straight my mother never heard. It could bethat he told her, for many a one used to go to her for a charm whenthe butter wouldn't come, or a cow, maybe, was pining; so it wouldn'tsurprise me if Anthony went to her. "

Peter crept aft He took a pull on the jib-sheet and belayed it again;but I do not believe that he really cared much about the set of thesail. That was his excuse. He wanted to be nearer to me. There issomething in stories like this, told in dim twilight, with dark waterssighing near at hand, which makes men feel the need of close humancompanionship. Peter seated himself on the floorboards at my feet, and Ifelt a certain comfort in the touch of his arm on my leg. 

"Well, " he went on, "according to the old hag--and what she said wastrue enough, however she learnt it--them ones doesn't go naked all thetime, but only when they're playing themselves on the rocks at low tide, the way Anthony seen them. Mostly they have a kind of cloak that theywear, and they take the same cloaks off of them when they're up abovethe water and they lay them down on the rocks. If so be that a man couldpat his hand on e'er a cloak, the one that owned it would have to followhim whether she wanted to or not. If it was to the end of the worldshe'd have to follow him, or to Spain, or to America, or wherever hemight go. And what's more, she'd have to do what he bid her, be the samegood or bad, and be with him if he wanted her, so long as he kept thecloak from her. That's what the old woman told Anthony, and she was askilful woman, well knowing the nature of beasts and men, and of themthat's neither beasts nor men. You'll believe me now that Anthony wasn'taltogether the same as other men when I tell you that he laid his minddown to get his hand down on one of the cloaks. He was a good swimmer, so he was, which is what few men on the island can do, and he knew thathe'd be able to fetch out to the rock where them ones playedthemselves. "

I was quite prepared to believe that Anthony was inspired by a passionfar out of the common. I know nothing more terrifying than the chillembrace of the sea at night-time. To strike out through the slimy weedswhich lie close along the surface at the ebb point of a spring tide, toclamber on low rocks, half awash for an hoar or two at midnight, theseare things which I would not willingly do. 

"The first time he went for to try it, " said Peter, "he felt a bit queerin himself and he thought it would do him no harm if he was to blesshimself. So he did, just as he was stepping off the shore into thewater. Well, it might as well have been a shot he fired, for the minutehe did it they were off and their cloaks along with them; and Anthonywas left there. It was the sign of the cross had them frightened, forthat same is what they can't stand, not having souls that religion wouldbe any use to. It was the old woman told Anthony that after, and you'dthink it would have been a warning to him not to make or meddle with thelike of them any more. But it only made him the more determined. He wentabout without speaking to man or woman, and if anybody spoke to him he'dcurse terrible, till the time of the next spring tide. Then he was offto the bay again, and sure enough them ones was there. The water wasmiddling rough that night, but it didn't daunt Anthony. It pleased him, for he thought he'd have a better chance of getting to the rocks withoutthem taking notice of him if there was some noise loud enough to drownthe noise he'd be making himself. So he crept out to the point of thecliff on the south side of the bay, which is as near as he could get tothe rocks. You remember that?"

I did. On the night when we beat out of the bay against a risingwesterly wind we went about once under the shadow of the cliff, and, almost before we had full way on the boat, stayed her again beside therocks. Anthony's swim, though terrifying, was short. 

"That time he neither blessed himself nor said a prayer, but slippedinto the water, and off with him, swimming with all his strength. Theydidn't see him, for they were too busy with their playing to take muchnotice, and of course they couldn't be expecting a man to be there. Without Anthony had shouted they wouldn't have heard him, for the seawas loud on the rocks and their own singing was louder. So Anthony gotthere and he crept up on the rock behind them, and the first thing hishand touched was one of the cloaks. He didn't know which of them itbelonged to, and he didn't care. It wasn't any one of the three inparticular he wanted, for they were all much about the same to look at, only finer than any woman ever was seen. So he rolled the cloak roundhis neck, the way he'd have his arms free for swimming, and back withhim into the water, heading for shore as fast as he was able. "

"And she followed him?" I asked. 

"She did so. From that day till the day she left him she followed him, and she did what she was bid, only for one thing. She wouldn't go tomass, and when the chapel bell rang she'd hide herself. The sound of itwas what she couldn't bear. The people thought that queer, and therewas a deal of talk about it in the bland, some saying she must be aProtestant, and more thinking that she might be something worse. Butnobody had a word to say against her any other way. She was a goodenough housekeeper, washing and making and mending for Anthony, andminding the children. Seven of them there was, and all boys. "

The easterly breeze freshened as the night fell I could see the greateye of the lighthouse blinking at me on the weather side of the boat. It became necessary to go about, but I gave the order to Peter veryreluctantly. He handled the head-sheets, and then, instead of settlingdown in his old place, leaned his elbows on the coaming and stared intothe sea. We were steadily approaching the lighthouse. I felt that I mustrun the risk of asking him a question. 

"What happened in the end?" I asked. 

"The end, is it? Well, in the latter end she left him. But there wasthings happened before that. Whether it was the way the priests talkedto him about her--there was a priest in it them times that was too fondof interfering, and that's what some of them are--or whether there wasgoings-on within in the inside of the house that nobody knew anythingabout--and there might have been, for you couldn't tell what one of themones might do or mightn't Whatever way it was, Anthony took to drinkingmore than he ought. There was poteen made on the island then, and whiskywas easy come by if a man wanted it, and Anthony took too much of it. "

Peter paused and then passed judgment, charitably, on Anthony's conduct"I wouldn't be too hard on a man for taking a drop an odd time. "

I was glad to hear Peter say that I myself had found it necessary fromtime to time, for the sake of an old friendship, not to be too hard onPeter. 

"Nobody would have blamed him, " Peter went on, "if he had behavedhimself when he had a drop taken; but that's what he didn't seem ableto do. He bet her. Sore and heavy he bet her, and that's what no woman, whether she was a natural woman or one of the other kind, could beexpected to put up with. Not that she said a word. She didn't. Nornobody would have known that he bet her if he hadn't token to beatingthe young lads along with her. It was them told what was going on. But there wasn't one on the island would interfere. The people didbe wondering that she didn't put the fear of God into Anthony; but ofcourse that's what she couldn't do on account of his having the cloakhid away from her. So long as he had that she was bound to put up withwhatever he did. But it wasn't for ever. 

"The house was going to rack and ruin with the way Anthony wouldn't mindit on account of his being three-parts drunk most of the time. At lastthe rain was coming in through the roof. When Anthony saw that he cameto himself a bit and sent for my grandfather and settled with him to puta few patches of new thatch on the worst places. My grandfather was thebest man at thatching that there was in the island in them days, andhe took the job though he misdoubted whether he'd ever be paid for it. Anthony never came next or nigh him when he was working, which showsthat he hadn't got his senses rightly. If he had he'd have kept an eyeon what my grandfather was doing, knowing what he knew, though of coursemy grandfather didn't know. Well, one day my grandfather was draggingoff the old thatch near the chimney. It was middling late in theevening, as it might be six or seven o'clock, and he was thinking ofstopping his work when all of a sudden he came on what he thought mightbe an old petticoat bundled away in the thatch. It was red, he said, but when he put his hand on it he knew it wasn't flannel, nor it wasn'tcloth, nor it wasn't like anything he'd ever felt before in all hislife. There was a hole in the roof where my grandfather had the thatchstripped, and he could see down into the kitchen. Anthony's wife wasthere with the youngest of the boys in her arms. My grandfather was asmuch in dread of her as every other one, but he thought it would be nomore than civil to tell her what he'd found. 

"'Begging your pardon, ma'am, ' he said, 'but I'm after finding whatmaybe belongs to you hid away in the thatch. '

"With that he threw down the red cloak, for it was a red cloak he had inhis hand. She didn't speak a word, but she laid down the baby out of herarms and she walked out of the house. That was the last my father seenof her. And that was the last anyone on the island seen of her, unlessmaybe Anthony. Nobody knows what he saw. He stopped off the drink fromthat day; but it wasn't much use his stopping it. He used to go roundat spring tides to the bay where he had seen her first He did that fivetimes, or maybe six. After that he took to his bed and died. It could bethat his heart was broke. "

We slipped past the point of the pier. Peter crept forward and crouchedon the deck in front of the mast I peered into the gloom to catch sightof our mooring-buoy. 

"Let her away a bit yet, " said Peter. "Now luff her, luff her all youcan. "

The boat edged up into the wind. Peter, flat on his stomach, grasped thebuoy and hauled it on board. The fore-sheets beat their tattoo on thedeck. The boom swung sharply across the boat. 

Ten minutes later we were leaning together across the boom gathering inthe mainsail. 

"What became of the boys?" I asked. 

"Is it Anthony O'Flaherty's boys? The last of them went to Americatwenty years ago. But sure that was before you came to these parts. "

XVI ~~ AN UPRIGHT JUDGE

No one knows how the quarrel between Peter Joyce and Patrick JosephFlanagan began. It had been smouldering for years, a steady-going feud, before it reached its crisis last June. 

The Joyces and Flanagans were neighbours, occupying farms of very poorland on the side of Letterbrack, a damp and lonely hill some miles fromthe nearest market town. This fact explains the persistence of the feud. It is not easy to keep up a quarrel with a man whom you only see oncea month or so. Nor is it possible to concentrate the mind on oneparticular enemy if you live in a crowded place. Joyce and Flanagan saweach other every day. They could not help seeing each other, for theirfarms were small. They scarcely ever saw anyone else, because therewere no other farms on the side of the hill. And the feud was a familyaffair. Mrs. Joyce and Mrs. Flanagan disliked each other heartily andnever met without using language calculated to embitter the feelingbetween them. The young Joyces and the young Flanagans fought fiercelyon their way to and from school. 

The war, which has turned Europe upside down and dragged most thingsfrom their familiar moorings, had its effect on the lives of the twofarmers on the side of Letterbrack. They became better off than they hadever been before. It must not be supposed that they grew rich. Accordingto the standard of English working men they had always been wretchedlypoor. All that the war did for them was to put a little, a very little, more money into their pockets. They themselves did not connect their newprosperity with the war. They did not, indeed, think about the war atall, bring fully occupied with their work and their private quarrel. They noticed, without inquiring into causes, that the prices of thethings they sold went up steadily. A lean bullock fetched an amazing sumat a fair. Young pigs proved unexpectedly profitable. The eggs which thewomen carried into town on market days could be exchanged for unusualquantities of tea. And the rise in prices was almost pure gain to thesefarmers. They lived for the most part on the produce of their own landand bought very little in shops. There came a time when Peter Joyce hada comfortable sum, about £20 in all, laid by after making provision forhis rent and taxes. He felt entitled to some little indulgence. 

An Englishman, when he finds himself in possession of spare cash spendsit on material luxuries for himself and, if he is a good man, for hisfamily. He buys better food, better clothes, and furniture of a kind notabsolutely necessary, like pianos. An Irishman, in a similar agreeableposition, prefers pleasures of a more spiritual kind. Peter Joyce wasperfectly content to wear a "bawneen" of homemade flannel and a pair ofragged trousers. He did not want anything better for dinner than boiledpotatoes and fried slices of bacon. He had not the smallest desire topossess a piano or even an armchair. But he intended, in his own way, toget solid enjoyment out of his £20. 

It was after the children had gone to bed one evening that he discussedthe matter with his wife. 

"I'm not sure, " he said, "but it might be as well to settle things upone way or another with that old reprobate Patrick Joseph Flanagan. It'swhat I'll have to do sooner or later. "

"Them Flanagans, " said Mrs. Joyce, "is the devil. There isn't a daypasses but one or other of them has me tormented. If it isn't her it'sone of the children, and if, by the grace of God, it isn't the childrenit's herself. "

"What I'm thinking of, " said Joyce, "is taking the law of him. "

"It'll cost you something to do that, " said Mrs. Joyce cautiously. 

"And if it does, what matter? Haven't I the money to pay for it?"

"You have, " said Mrs. Joyce. "You have surely. And Flanagan deserves it, so he does. It's not once nor twice, but it's every day I do be sayingthere's something should be done to them Flanagans. "

"There's more will be done to him than he cares for, " said Joyce grimly. "Wait till the County Court Judge gets at him. Believe me he'll be sorryfor himself then. "

Peter Joyce started early next morning. He had an eight-mile walk beforehim and he wished to reach the town in good time, being anxious to puthis case into the hands of Mr. Madden, the solicitor, before Mr. Madden became absorbed in the business of the day. Mr. Madden had thereputation of being the smartest lawyer in Connaught, and his time wasvery fully occupied. 

It took Joyce nearly three hours to reach the town and he had ample timeto prepare his case against Flanagan as he went There was no lackof material for the lawsuit A feud of years' standing provides manygrievances which can fairly be brought into court. Joyce's difficultywas to make a choice. He pondered deeply as he walked along the bareroad across the bog. When he reached the door of Mr. Madden's officehe had a tale of injuries suffered at the hands of the Flanagans whichwould, he felt sure, move the judge to vindictive fury. 

Mr. Madden was already busy when Joyce was shown unto his room. 

"Well, " he said, "who are you and what do you want?"

"My name's Peter Joyce of Letterbrack, your honour, " said Joyce. "Adecent man with a long weak family, and my father was a decent manbefore me, and it's no fault of mine that I'm here to-day, and goinginto court, though there isn't another gentleman in all Ireland I'dsooner come to than yourself, Mr. Madden, if so be I had to come toanyone. And it's what I'm druv to, for if I wasn't----"

"What is it?" said Mr. Madden. "Police? Drunk and disorderly?"

"It is not, " said Joyce. "Sure I never was took by the police onlytwice, and them times they wouldn't have meddled with me only for thespite the sergeant had against me. But he's gone from the place now, thanks be to God, and the one that came after him wouldn't touch me. "

Peter Joyce sank his voice to a whisper. 

"It's how I want to take the law of Patrick Joseph Flanagan, " he said. 

"Trespass or assault?" said Mr. Madden. 

He was a man of immense experience. He succeeded in carrying on alarge practice because he wasted no time in listening to preliminaryexplanations of his clients. Most legal actions in the West of Irelandare reducible to trespass or assault. 

"It's both the two of them, " said Joyce. 

Mr. Madden made a note on a sheet of paper before him. Joyce waiteduntil he had finished writing. Then he said slowly:

"Trespass and assault and more besides. "

Mr. Madden asked no question. He added to the note he had writtenthe words "And abusive language. " Abusive language generally followstrespass and immediately precedes assault. 

"Now, " said Mr. Madden, "get on with your story and make it as short asyou can. "

Peter Joyce did his best to make the story short He succeeded in makingit immensely complicated. There was a boundary wall in the story andit had been broken down. There was a heifer calf and a number of youngpigs. There was a field of oats trampled and destroyed by the heifer, and a potato patch ruined beyond hope by the pigs. There was a sheeptorn by a dog, stones thrown at Mrs. Joyce, language that had defiledthe ears of Molly Joyce, an innocent child of twelve years old, andthere was the shooting of a gun at Peter himself. 

Joyce was prepared to swear to every item of the indictment. He didactually swear from time to time, laying his hand solemnly on a largeledger which stood on Mr. Madden's desk. Mr. Madden listened until hehad heard enough. 

"You haven't a ghost of a case against Flanagan, " he said. "The judgewon't listen to a story like that. If you take my advice you'll gostraight home and make it up with Flanagan. You'll simply waste yourmoney if you go into court. "

Mr. Madden, it will be seen, was a man of principle. He made hisliving out of other people's quarrels, but he gave honest advice to hisclients. He was also a man of wide knowledge of West of Ireland fanners. He knew perfectly well that his advice would not be taken. 

"I've the money to pay for it, " said Joyce, "and I'll have the law ofPatrick Joseph Flanagan if it costs me the last penny I own. If yourhonour doesn't like the case sure I can go to someone else. "

Mr. Madden, though a man of principle, was not quixotic. 

"Very well, " he said. "I'll manage your case for you; but I warn youfairly the judge will give it against you. "

"He might not, " said Joyce. "In the latter end he might not. "

"He will, " said Mr. Madden, "unless----"

He was watching Joyce carefully as he spoke. The man's face had anexpression of cunning and self-satisfaction. 

"Unless, " Mr. Madden went on, "you've something up your sleeve that youhaven't told me yet. "

Joyce winked solemnly. 

"It's what it would be hardly worth mentioning to your honour, " he said. 

"You'd better mention it all the same, " said Mr. Madden. 

"What I was thinking, " said Joyce, "is that if I was to send a pair ofducks to the judge a couple of days before the case was to come on--fineducks we have, as fine as ever was seen. "

"Listen to me, " said Mr. Madden. "You've got the very smallest possiblechance of winning your case. But you have a chance. It's a hundred toone against you. Still, odd things do happen in courts. But let me tellyou this. I know that judge. I've known him for years, and if you try tobribe him with a pair of ducks he'd give it against you even if you hadthe best case in the world instead of the worst. That's the kind of manhe is. "

Joyce sighed heavily. The ways of the law were proving unexpectedlydifficult and expensive. 

"Maybe, " he said, "I could send him two pair of ducks, or two pair and ahalf, but that's the most I can do; and there won't be a young duck leftabout the place if I send him that many. "

"Either you act by my advice, " said Mr. Madden, "or I'll drop your case. This isn't a matter for the local bench of magistrates. If it was themyou were dealing with, ducks might be some use to you. But a CountyCourt Judge is a different kind of man altogether. He's a gentleman, andhe's honest. If you attempt to get at him with ducks or any other kindof bribe you'll ruin any chance you have, which isn't much. "

"That's a queer thing now, so it is, " said Joyce. 

"It's true all the same, " said Mr. Madden. 

"Do you mean to tell me, " said Joyce, "that his honour, the judge, wouldgo against a man that had done him a good turn in the way of a pair ofducks or the like?"

"That's exactly what I do mean, " said Mr. Madden. "No judge would standit And the one who presides over this court would be even angrier thanmost of them, so don't you do it. "

Joyce left Mr. Madden's office a few minutes later, and tramped home. In spite of the lawyer's discouraging view of the case he seemed fairlywell satisfied. 

That evening he spoke to his wife. 

"How many of them large white dukes have you?" he asked; "how manythat's fit to eat?"

"There's no more than six left out of the first clutch, " said Mrs. Joyce. "There was eleven hatched out, but sure the rats got the restof them. " "I'd be glad, " said Joyce, "if you'd fatten them six, and youneedn't spare the yellow meal. It'll be worth your while to have them asgood as you can. "

A month later the case of Joyce v. Flanagan came on in the County Court. Mr. Madden had hammered the original story of the wall, the heifer, thepigs and the potatoes, into shape. It sounded almost plausible as Mr. Madden told it in his opening remarks. But he had very little hopesthat it would survive the handling of Mr. Ellis, a young and intelligentlawyer, who was acting for Flanagan. Joyce cheerfully confirmedevery detail of the story on oath. He was unshaken by Mr. Ellis'cross-examination, chiefly because the judge constantly interfered withMr. Ellis and would not allow him to ask the questions he wanted to ask. Flanagan and his witnesses did their best, but the judge continued tomake things as difficult as he could for their lawyer. The matter, whenall the evidence was heard, appeared tangled and confused, a resultfar beyond Mr. Madden's best expectations. He had feared that thetruth might emerge with disconcerting plainness. Then an amazing thinghappened The judge took Joyce's view of the circumstances and decided inhis favour. Mr. Ellis gasped. Flanagan swore audibly and was silenced bya policeman. Joyce left the court with a satisfied smile. 

"Well, " said Mr. Madden, a little later, "you've won, but I'm damned ifI know how it happened. I never went into court with a shakier case. "

"I shouldn't wonder, " said Joyce, "but it might have been the ducks thatdid it. I sent him six, your honour, six, and as fat as any duck everyou seen. "

"Good Lord!" said Mr. Madden. "After all I said to you--and--but, goodheavens, man! He can't have got them. If he had----"

"He got them right enough, " said Joyce, "for I left them at the door ofthe hotel myself, with a bit of a note, saying as how I hoped he'd takea favourable view of the case that would be before him to-day, andI told him what the case was, so as there'd be no mistake--Joyce v. Flanagan was what I wrote, in a matter of trespass and assault, andabusive language. "

"Well, " said Mr. Madden, "all I can say is that if I hadn't seen with myown eyes what happened in that court to-day I wouldn't have believed itTo think that the judge, of all men----"

"It was Flanagan's name and not my own, " said Joyce, "that I signedat the bottom of the note. 'With the respectful compliments of PatrickJoseph Flanagan, the defendant, ' was what I wrote, like as if it wasfrom him that the ducks came. "

"I'd never have thought of it, " said Mr. Madden. "Joyce, it's you andnot me that ought to be a lawyer. Lawyer! That's nothing. You oughtto be a Member of Parliament. Your talents are wasted, Joyce. Go intoParliament You'll be a Cabinet Minister before you die. "

THE END