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find oneself the next. ing a turn into a sheltered hollow, a faint whistle sounded, and we raced past a crossroads: for a second I heard the skirl of pipes, and caught a glimpse of a long row of men drilling.

Round- burning in the main street of Clashagoppul. I wished to telephone to my people at home, knowing they must be anxious about me; so my benefactor put me out at the grocery-store owned by one Daniel Herlihy, a very respectable man, who had installed a telephone and electric-light in his shop, and who owned a Ford car and a permit, though rumour said he had been warned to make no use of the latter.

The sudden slowing of the car, accompanied by an exolamation from my benefactor, made me open my eyes, which I had closed owing to the lashing rain. We were passing through a deep-wooded glen a few miles from Clashagoppul. Just ahead, a great obstacle reared itself right in the middle of the road. At first sight, lit up as it was by the white glare from the headlights, it suggested a model of the rising sun carved in rough stone, the rays spread-. ing fan-like to either side of the road. A oloser view showed it to be the stump and roots roots of a huge tree placed on its side, reinforced with brushwood, and to all appearance completely blocking the road.

Regan, however, must have detected a weak spot, for after & moment's hesitation he rushed the car to the left of the obstacle, and though it grazed the roots on one side and the edge of the road on the other, it came safely through.

I fully expected a volley of shots from the high rocky banks, but it is evident that those responsible for the obstacle had grown tired of waiting in the rain for a chance car, and had taken themselves off.

In spite of the lateness of the hour, lights were still

To my surprise, before I could reach the door it was slammed in my face; I heard the key grating in the lock, and the cheerful shop-window became dark. I knocked and shook the door violently-something gave way, and it opened. The shop was plunged in complete darkness. I stumbled in a little way and stood still, uncertain what to do next. Regan, who had evidently grasped the situation, followed me.

"Ah, Danny, come out of that now," he said; "sure ye've no call to be afraid this time. 'Tis only a lady wanting to telephone." He switched on the light; Danny Herlihy rose from beneath the counter, looking foolish, and thrusting into an inner pocket something suspiciously like a revolver.

He was profuse in his apologies. "When I seen the motor at the door, I thought maybe some of them Sinn Feiners was after me permit. 'Faith, there's no knowing when they'd take a notion to come out and shoot ye; and they'd shoot ye dead, mind! They're

that badly rared and vulgar," he explained in a cautious whisper.

My friends the Fagans lived at the far end of the main street. Mr James Fagan combined farming with a little horse-dealing, and had married the heiress of a small general store. I had known them a good many years, and before the war had often stopped at their shop for tea on my way home from hunting.

The shutters were already up in the shop window. Through a chink I observed Mrs Fagan, her little niece, and Hannah, the elderly maid, counting the money and tidy. ing the shop for the night. After knocking at the door with no result, I again peeped in. The child had vanished, and the two women were hurrying out of the back-door. Mrs Fagan, staggering under the weight of a large cashbox, glanced back as she passed through the door; her eyes were terrified, her usually ruddy cheeks chalk-white.

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moment later her husband darted into the shop with the desperate air of one consoiously facing death. He seized the hanging-lamp-a puff, and it was extinguished. In the darkness I heard the back-door slam.

It was an uncomfortable position in which to find oneself at midnight in mid-winter, having had nothing to eat for just ten hours, and with torrents of rain falling!

Across the street stood the police barracks;1 I half thought of applying there for shelter, but judging by the reception given me by Herlihy the grocer and the Fagans, it seemed futile to expect any response from the police. For the R.I.C. live in hourly expectation of death, and a summons to the door by night can have but one meaning for them.

So, with the energy of despair, I went on knocking at the Fagans' door, and by-andby a slight oreaking overhead told that a window was being cautiously opened.

"Mrs Fagan," I called, "don't you know me?"

"God bless us and save us this night!" was the reply in the voice of Hannah, the elderly maid.

Too utterly astonished for any speech except breathless invocations upon the saints, she let me in at last, and pointed to the staircase. Upstairs, upon the landing, the Fagan family were assembled in silent consternation. The little niece was crouching under a table; Mr Fagan, armed with a stout huntingorop, was supporting his wife, who later on told me that after hiding the cash-box under the tick, all she could do was to olap her hand on her heart and say, "God help us, Jamesy, they've come!"

The Fagans were horrified at what-in spite of the excuse of the "quare times "-they considered an unpardonable

1 A few nights later this barrack was blown up by Sinn Feiners after a fight lasting several hours.

VOL, CCVIII.-NO. MCCLVII.

с

breach of manners on their sympathetic interest in soldiers part. They overwhelmed me was only natural, for their son, with kindness and with food. Cornelius, had joined up for Though at first they inquired the war, and served with conif I had been "hurted," all siderable distinction. It struck further allusion to the me there had been no mention "accident" Was carefully of him so far—perhaps because avoided. The conversation I had omitted to inquire for during a meal that must him. have lasted nearly an hour, was skilfully directed into safe and seasonable channels, such as the weather, the joys of Christmas, and the probable number of foxes in the country.

Yet some instinot told me my hosts were consumed by a burning curiosity which I could do nothing to quench, as I could not guess its origin. The plain and simple fact of my oar having broken down, and of the chauffeur having remained to look after it, seemed 80 very plain and simple that it surely could give rise to no speculation, and certainly called for neither comment nor explanation.

Just once Jamesy Fagan lapsed from his attitude of caution and asked a question bearing on the events of the night: "The shaffer that was driving you, 'twas not the fellow you had a year or two back?"

I told him that Twohig was a recent acquisition, and an ex-soldier.

"Ah, the poor good man! God pity him!" they both exclaimed.

Raising a corner of the tablecloth, Mrs Fagan wiped her eyes, while Jamesy gazed gloomily into the fire.

That they should take a

"I hope Cornelius is well," I said. "Is he at home now?” Mr Fagan shot a repressive glance at his wife.

"He is not," he replied. "He got a notion to go to England. Have you the old foxy horse still?"

Formerly the subject of Cornelius was inexhaustible; now his parents shrank from the mere mention of his name. It was my turn to feel curious. Nevertheless the hint. I had received was too definite to be disregarded. I wondered, but asked no questions.

Mrs Fagan gave me a tidy little room once occupied by Cornelius.

She lingered after saying good-night. I guessed that, unhampered by her husband's presence, she was on the verge of either asking or divulging something of importance.

It is never wise to question my fellow - men except indirectly, so all I could do to help her was to repeat my thanks for her kindness and hospitality, and to express the pleasure I felt at seeing her and Mr Fagan again.

"Indeed himself and me always had a great wish for you since the time you'd come here with the foxy horse for a cup of tea," she said. "Sure didn't me heart stop dead

when I heard you'd met an accident! Thank Thank God you were not hurted, anyway." The smile left her face all at once. "Tell me," she asked in a loud whisper, "was he anointed?" Reply was impossible, for I was quite at sea.

"Did you get Father Heaphy from Tubbernaphooka to him? Could you get ne'er a priest for him at all?"

I had a glimpse, as it were, of land.

I shook my head. "There was no need "I began; but before I could say more she grasped her thick grey hair with both hands and rushed out to Mr Fagan, who lurked, candle in hand, on the landing. "Oh, Jamesy," she cried, "the shaffer was killed dead!" It was no easy matter to convince the Fagans that Twohig was as much alive as I. From the first, apparently, they had put their own construction upon the account I gave them, and had taken for granted that we had been waylaid, and that Twohig was either lying wounded by the roadside or had been escorted away by the raiders.

On learning that he was an ex-soldier, all possibility vanished of his life being spared, and the one remaining point of interest was whether he had been killed instantaneously or had survived long enough to see a priest. Even after I had gone over the whole episode again and again, enlarging upon every detail, I found they still thought I was trying to hide the truth with elaborate and circumstantial lies, lest I

should somehow expose myself to the imputation of giving evidence against Sinn Fein!

Yet the Fagans are most superior people, intelligent loyalists, and acquainted with "the ways of the gentry!"

I did not sleep well that night. Below in the street the Clashagoppul Tin Band defied the New Year and the R.I.C. well into the small hours of the morning. The discordant strains were 80companied by squeals and catcalls, oheers for de Valera, and invitations to the police to

come out and be shot." Towards morning a variation in the noise was introduced by sharp whistles, words of command, and the measured tramping of Sinn Fein feet. I fell asleep eventually, and awoke to the sound of church bells. Mrs Fagan, dressed for early Mass, was standing by my bed.

She asked anxiously if I had heard the "music" in the night, and assured me the poor fellows would have played louder only for a death in the village and they being very soft-hearted!

I had told Twohig that should he not turn up with the car by nine o'clock I would take steps to get back to the spot where I had left him. So, while the Fagans were at Mass I went across the road to the police station and telephoned to various garages and oar-owners in the neighbouring towns. But the reply was the same in every case-either the drivers had refused to apply for permits, or the owners were afraid to take out their

breach of manners on their sympathetic interest in soldiers part. They overwhelmed me was only natural, for their son, with kindness and with food. Cornelius, had joined up for Though at first they inquired the war, and served with conif I had been "hurted," all siderable distinotion. It struck further allusion to the me there had been no mention "accident" Was carefully of him so far-perhaps because avoided. The conversation I had omitted to inquire for during a meal that must him. have lasted nearly an hour, was skilfully directed into safe and seasonable channels, such as the weather, the joys of Christmas, and the probable number of foxes in the country.

Yet some instinct told me my hosts were consumed by a burning curiosity which I could do nothing to quench, as I could not guess its origin. The plain and simple fact of my car having broken down, and of the chauffeur having remained to look after it, seemed 80 very plain and simple that it surely could give rise to no speculation, and certainly called for neither comment nor explanation.

Just once Jamesy Fagan lapsed from his attitude of caution and asked a question bearing on the events of the night: "The shaffer that was driving you, 'twas not the fellow you had a year or two back?"

I told him that Twohig was a recent acquisition, and an ex-soldier.

"Ah, the poor good man! God pity him!" they both exclaimed.

Raising a corner of the tablecloth, Mrs Fagan wiped her eyes, while Jamesy gazed gloomily into the fire.

That they should take a

"I hope Cornelius is well," I said. "Is he at home now?" Mr Fagan shot a repressive glance at his wife.

"He is not," he replied. "He got a notion to go to England. Have you the old foxy horse still?"

Formerly the subject of Cornelius was inexhaustible; now his parents shrank from the mere mention of his name. It was my turn to feel curious. Nevertheless the hint. I had received was too definite to be disregarded. I wondered, but asked no questions.

Mrs Fagan gave me a tidy little room once occupied by Cornelius.

She lingered after saying good-night. I guessed that, unhampered by her husband's presence, she was on the verge of either asking or divulging something of importance.

It is never wise to question my fellow - men except indirectly, so all I could do to help her was to repeat my thanks for her kindness and hospitality, and to express the pleasure I felt at seeing her and Mr Fagan again.

"Indeed himself and me always had a great wish for you since the time you'd come here with the foxy horse for a cup of tea," she said. "Sure didn't me heart stop dead

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