Further Experiences of an Irish R.M.

by E. Oe. Somerville and Martin Ross

  VII

  THE LAST DAY OF SHRAFT

  It was not many days after the Keohane and Brickley trial that mywife's elderly step-brother, Maxwell Bruce, wrote to us to say that hewas engaged in a tour through the Irish-speaking counties, and wouldlook us up on his way from Kerry. The letter began "_O Bean uasal_,"and broke into eruptions of Erse at various points, but the excerptsfrom Bradshaw were, fortunately, in the vernacular.

  Philippa assured me she could read it all. During the previous wintershe had had five lessons and a half in the Irish language from theNational Schoolmaster, and believed herself to be one of the props ofthe Celtic movement. My own attitude with regard to the Celticmovement was sympathetic, but a brief inspection of the grammarconvinced me that my sympathies would not survive the strain oftripthongs, eclipsed consonants, and synthetic verbs, and that I shoulddo well to refrain from embittering my declining years by an impotentand humiliating pursuit of the most elusive of pronunciations.Philippa had attained to the height of being able to greet theschoolmaster in Irish, and, if the day happened to be fine, she wascapable of stating the fact; other aspects of the weather, howeverremarkable, she epitomised in a brilliant smile, and the schoolmasterwas generally considerate enough not to press the matter.

  My step-brother-in-law neither hunted, shot, nor fished, yet as a guesthe never gave me a moment's anxiety. He possessed the attribute,priceless in guests, a good portable hobby, involving no machinery,accessories, or paraphernalia of any kind. It did not even involve thepersonal attendance of his host. His mornings were spent in profferingIrish phrases to bewildered beggars at the hall door, or to therespectfully bored Peter Cadogan in the harness-room. He held_conversaziones_ in the servants' hall after dinner, while I sleptbalmily in front of the drawing-room fire. When not thus engaged, hesat in his room making notes, and writing letters to the Archimandritesof his faith. Truly an ideal visitor, one to whom neglect was akindness, and entertainments an abomination; certainly not a person totake to Hare Island to shoot ducks with Flurry Knox.

  HIS MORNINGS WERE SPENT IN PROFFERING IRISH PHRASES]

  But it was otherwise ordained by Philippa. Hare Island was, she said,and the schoolmaster said, a place where the Irish language was stillspoken with a purity worthy of the Isles of Aran. Its folk-lore was anunworked mine, and it was moreover the home of one Shemus Ruadth, asinger and poet (and, I may add, a smuggler of tobacco) of high localrenown: Maxwell should on no account miss such a chance. I mentionedthat Hare Island was at present going through the measles phase of itsusual rotation of epidemics. My wife wavered, in a manner that showedme that I had been on the verge of a family picnic, and I said I hadheard that there was whooping-cough there too. The children had hadneither. The picnic expired without a sound, but mystep-brother-in-law had made up his mind.

  It was a grey and bitter February morning when Maxwell and I,accompanied by Peter Cadogan, stood waiting on the beach at Yokahn forFlurry to arrive. Maria, as was her wont, was nosing my gun as if sheexpected to see a woodcock fly out of it; that Minx was beside her wasdue to the peculiar inveteracy of Minx. How she had achieved it is ofno consequence; the distressing fact remained that she was there,seated, shuddering, upon a space of wet stone no larger than asixpence, and had to be accepted as one of the party. It struck methat Mr. Cadogan had rather overdressed the part of dog-boy andbag-bearer, being attired in a striped blue flannel suit that had oncebeen mine, a gaudy new cap, and yellow boots. The social possibilitiesof Hare Island had faded from my mind; I merely experienced the usualhumiliation of perceiving how discarded garments can, in a lowersphere, renew their youth and blossom as the rose. I was evenformulating a system of putting my old clothes out at grass, as itwere, with Peter Cadogan, when a messenger arrived with a note fromFlurry Knox in which he informed me, with many regrets, that he waskept at home on unexpected business, but he had arranged that we shouldfind a boat ready to take us to the island, and Con Brickley would lookafter us when we got there. The boat was even now nearing the beach,rowed by two men, who, in beautiful accord with our "binding to thePeace," proved to be the Widower, Jer Keohane, and his late antagonist,the one-legged Con Brickley. In view of this millennial state ofaffairs it seemed alarmingly probable that the boat which had come forus was that on which, as on a pivot, the late battle had turned. Awitness had said, on oath, that "if it wasn't for the weeds that'sholding her together she'd bursht up in the deep." I inspected hernarrowly, and was relieved to see that the weeds still held theirground.

  A mile of slatey water tumbled between us and the island, and an undueproportion of it, highly flavoured by fish, flowed in uneasy tides inthe bottom of the boat, with a final disposition towards the well-ladenstern. There were no bottom boards, and, judging by the depth of theflood over the keel, her draught appeared to be equal to that of aracing yacht. We sat precariously upon strips of nine-inch plank, ourfeet propped against the tarred sides just out of the wash; the boatclimbed and wallowed with a three-cornered roll, the dogs panted inmingled nausea and agitation, and the narrow blades of the oars dippedtheir frayed edges in the waves in short and untiring jerks.

  My brother-in-law, with a countenance leaden magenta from cold,struggled with the whirling leaves of a phrase book. He was tall andthin, of the famished vegetarian type of looks, with unpractical,prominent eyes, and a complexion that on the hottest day in summerimparted a chill to the beholder; in this raw November wind it was apositive suffering even to think of his nose, and my eyes rested, inunconscious craving for warmth, upon the changeless, impartial red ofCon Brickley's monkey face.

  We landed with a rush on the steep shingle of a sheltered cove. Theisland boasted a pier, built with "Relief" money, but it was two milesfrom the lake where I was to shoot, and this small triangle of beach,tucked away in a notch of the cliff, was within ten minutes' walk ofit. At the innermost angle of the cove, where the notch ended in atortuous fissure, there was a path that zigzagged to the top of thecliff, a remarkably excellent path, and a well-worn one, with stepshere and there. I commented on it to Mr. Brickley.

  "Why, thin, it was in this same place that I losht the owld leg, sir,"he replied in his sombre voice. "I took a shlip on a dark night and melandlord was that much sorry for me that he made a good pat' in it."He was pitching himself up the steps on his crutches as he spoke, anobject of compassion of the most obvious and silencing sort. Why,then, should Peter Cadogan smile furtively at the Widower?

  At the top of the fissure, where it melted into a hollow between low,grassy hills, stood the Brickleys' cottage, long, low, and whitewashed,deep in shelter, with big stones, hung in halters of hay-rope, lying onits thatch, to keep the roof on in the Atlantic gales. A thick fuchsiahedge surrounded it; from its open door proceeded sounds of furiousaltercation; apparently a man and woman hurling invective andpersonalities at each other in Irish, at the tops of their voices. ConBrickley sprang forward on his crutch, a girl at the door vanished intothe house, and a sudden silence fell. With scarcely a perceptibleinterval, Mrs. Brickley appeared in the doorway, a red shawl tied overher rippling grey hair, her manner an inimitable blend of deference andhospitality.

  "Your Honour's welcome, Major Yeates," she said with a curtsey. A doorbanged at the back of the cottage. "That was a poor man from acrossthe water that came apologisin' to me for dhrawin' me name down in alittle disagreement that he had about a settin' o' goose eggs."

  I suppose that it was contrition that caused the apologist to stumbleheavily as he came round the corner of the house, and departed at atangent through an opening in the fuchsia hedge. Feeling that commenton the incident was too delicate a matter for my capacities, Iintroduced Maxwell and his aspirations to the lady of the house. Anyqualms that I might have had as to how to dispose of him while I wasshooting were set at rest by Mrs. Brickley's instant grasp of thesituation. I regret to say that I can neither transcribe nor translatethe rolling periods in which my brother-in-law addressed himself toher. I have reason to bel
ieve that he apostrophised her as "O worthywoman of cows!" invoking upon her and her household a comprehensive andclassic blessing, dating from the time of Cuchulain.

  Mrs. Brickley received it without a perceptible stagger, and in thecourse of the next few minutes, Miss Bridget Brickley (who, it may beremembered, had but recently renounced the office of kitchenmaid in myhouse) emerged, beautifully dressed, from the cottage, and wasdespatched, at full speed, to summon Shemus Ruadth, the poet, as wellas one or two of "the neighbours" reputed to speak Irish of the purestkind. If to make a guest feel himself to be the one person in theworld whose welfare is of any importance is the aim of hostesses, theycan study the art in its perfection under the smoky rafters of Irishcabins. If it is insincere, it is equally to be respected; it is oftenamiable to be insincere.

  My own share of the day's enjoyment opened plausibly enough, thoughnot, possibly, as cloudlessly as Maxwell's. Attended by Maria, PeterCadogan, and the Widower, and by a smell of whisky that floated to meon the chill breeze when the Widower was to windward, I set forth,having--as I fatuously imagined--disposed of Minx and of her intentionto join the shooting-party, by tying a stout piece of cord to hercollar, and placing its other end in my brother-in-law's hand. I had,by Flurry's advice, postponed the shooting of the lake till the lastthing before leaving the island, and turning my back upon it, I trampedinland along half-thawed marshes in search of snipe, and crept behindwalls after plover, whose elusive whistling was always two fieldsahead. After an unfruitful hour or so the entertainment began to drag,and another plan of campaign seemed advisable: I made a cache of myretinue behind a rock, one of the many rocks that stood like fossilisedmammoths upon the ragged hill slopes, and, with Maria at my heels,accomplished a long and laborious detour. At length, through thecrannies of a wall, I perceived just within shot a stand of plover,hopping, gobbling, squealing, quite unaware of my proximity. Icautiously laid my gun on the top of the wall. As I cocked it, a whiteform appeared on a fence behind the birds, poised itself for an instantwith elf-like ears spread wide, then, volleying barks, the intolerableMinx burst like a firework into the heart of the plover. In lightningresponse to her comrade's tally-ho Maria rocketted over the wall; theplover rose as one man, and, as I missed with both barrels, swirled outof range and sight. By way, I suppose, of rounding off the jesteffectively, Maria rushed in scientific zigzags through the field, insearch of the bird that she well knew I had not shot, deaf as the deadto words of command, while Minx, stark mad with excitement, circled andshrieked round Maria. To take off Maria's collar and thrash herheavily with the buckle end of it was futile, except as a personalgratification, but I did it. To thrash Minx was not only absurd butimpossible; one might as well have tried to thrash a grasshopper.

  I whistled for Peter and the Widower without avail, and finally, injust indignation, went back to look for them. They were gone. Not asoul was in sight. I concluded that they had gone on towards the lake,and having sacrificed a sandwich to the capture of Minx I coupled herto Maria by means of the cord that still trailed from her collar, andagain set forth. The island was a large one, three or four miles longby nearly as many wide; I had opened my campaign along its westernshores, where heather struggled with bog, and stones, big and little,bestrewed any patch sound enough to carry them. Here and there wereplaces where turf had been cut for fuel, leaving a drop like a sunkfence with black water at its foot, a matter requiring a hearty jump onto what might or might not be sound landing. When two maniacs areunequally yoked together by their necks, heartiness and activity are ofless importance than unanimity, and it was in unanimity that Maria andMinx chiefly failed. At such moments, profoundly as I detested Minx,my sympathies reluctantly were hers. Conscious, as are all littledogs, of her superior astuteness, she yet had to submit to Maria'schoice of pace, to Maria's professional quarterings and questings ofobviously barren tracts of bogland. In bursts of squealing fury shehung from Maria's ear, she tore mouthfuls of brown wool from her neck,she jibbed with all her claws stuck into the ground; none the less shewas swept across the ditches, and lugged over the walls, in seemingoneness of purpose, in total and preposterous absurdity. At onejuncture a snipe, who must, I think, have been deaf, remained longenough within their sphere of action for me to shoot him. The couple,unanimous for once, charged down upon the remains; the corpse wassecured by Maria, but was torn piecemeal from her jaws by Minx. Theythen galloped emulously back to me for applause, still bitterlycontesting every inch of the snipe, and, having grudgingly relinquishedthe fragments, waited wild-eyed and panting, with tongues hanging likeaprons to their knees.

  It was towards the close of the incident that I was aware of a sibilantwhispering near me, and found that I was being observed from the rearwith almost passionate interest, by two little girls and a pair ofgoats. I addressed the party with an enquiry as to whether they hadseen Jer Keohane.

  The biggest little girl said that she had not seen him, but, in a _nonsequitur_ full of intelligence, added that she had seen Peter Cadogan awhile ago, sitting down under a wall, himself and Pidge.

  "What's Pidge?" said I cautiously. "Is it a dog?"

  "Oh Christians!" said the smaller child, swiftly covering her mouthwith her pinafore.

  The elder, with an untrammelled grin, explained that "Pidge" was thename by which my late kitchenmaid was known in the home circle.

  I postponed comment till Peter should be delivered into my hand, then,rightly concluding that the tendance of Hare Island goats would ensurethe qualities necessary for dealing with even Maria and Minx, I engagedthe pair as dog-boys.

  My progress from this point to the lake might have been taken from theOld Testament, or the Swiss Family Robinson. In front of me paced thegoats, who had sociably declined to be left out of the expedition;behind me strove the dogs, with the wiry and scarlet fingers of theirattendants knotted in Mrs. Brickley's invaluable piece of string. Itproved to be a thoroughly successful working arrangement; I even shot aplover, which was retrieved _en masse_ by all except the goats.

  In complete amity we reached the lake, a reedy strip of water thattwisted in and out between low hills, its indeterminate shores cloakedwith reeds. It was now past three o'clock, and the cold grey afternoonwas already heaping into the west the pile of dark clouds that was tobe its equivalent for sunset. I crept warily forward round the flankof the nearest hill, leaving the dogs and their keepers in deathgrapple, and the goats snatching mouthfuls of grass beside them, in thepetulant, fractious manner of goats, that so ill assorts with theirPresbyterian grey beards.

  The frost had been preceded by a flood, and the swamp bordering thelake was very bad going; the tussocks were rotten, the holes weredelusively covered with lids of white ice, and to traverse these in theattitude of a man with acute lumbago was no light matter. But theducks were there. I could hear them quacking and splashing beyond thescreen of reeds, and, straightening my back for an observation, caughtsight of four or five swimming in a line, well within range. There wasnot an instant to lose; balancing precariously on a tussock, I flung upmy gun and fired. Terrific quacking followed, interspersed by distantand heartrending yells from the dogs, but the inexplicable feature ofthe case was that the ducks did not rise from the water. Had I slainthe whole crowd? There was a sound as if the marsh behind me was beingslashed with a flail; a brown body whizzed past me, closely followed bya white one. "From his mountain home King James had rushing come," inother words, my retrievers had hurled themselves upon their prey.

  Maria's performance was faultless; in half a minute she had laid a birdat my feet, a very large pale drake, quite unlike any wild drake that Ihad ever----

  MARIA'S PERFORMANCE WAS FAULTLESS]

  Out of the silence that followed came a thin, shrill voice from thehill:

  "Thim's Mrs. Brickley's ducks!"

  In horrid confirmation of this appalling statement I perceived thesurvivors already landing on the far side of the lake, and hurryinghomeward up the hill with direful clamours, wh
ile a wedge-shaped ripplein the grey water with a white speck at its apex, told of Minx in anecstasy of pursuit.

  "Stop the dog!" I shouted to my maids-of-honour, "run round and catchher!"

  Maria here, in irrepressible appropriation of the mission, boltedbetween my legs, and sent me staggering backwards into a veryconsiderable boghole.

  I will not labour the details. After some flounderings I achievedsafety and the awe-stricken comments of the maids-of-honour, as wet asI have ever been in my life, and about five times as cold. One of myyoung ladies captured Minx in the act of getting ashore; the othercollected the slaughtered drake and shrouded him in her pinafore, witha grasp of the position that did credit to both heart and head, andthey finally informed me that Mrs. Brickley's house was only a smallpieceen away.

  I had left Mrs. Brickley's house a well-equipped sportsman, creditablyescorted by Peter Cadogan and the Widower. I returned to it a muddyand dripping outcast, attended by two little girls, two goats, and herown eight ducks, whom my hand had widowed. My sodden clothes clungclammily about me; the wind, as it pierced them, carried with it allthe iciness of the boghole. I walked at top speed to get up somesemblance of a circulation; I should have run were it not for theconfusion that such a proceeding would have caused to my cortege. Asit was, the ducks fled before me in waddling panic, with occasionalhelp from their wings, and panting and pattering in the rear told thatthe maids-of-honour, the goats, and the dogs were maintaining withdifficulty their due places in the procession. As I neared the cottageI saw a boy go quickly into it and shut the door; I passed into theyard within the fuchsia hedge and heard some one inside howling anddroning a song in Irish, and as I knocked, with frozen knuckles, thehouse gave the indefinable feeling of being full of people. There wasno response; I lifted the latch. The door opened into thefrieze-covered backs of several men, and an evenly blended smell ofwhisky, turf smoke, and crowded humanity steamed forth.

  The company made way for me, awkwardly; I noticed a tendency amongstthem to hold on to each other, and there was a hilarious light in Mrs.Brickley's eye as she hustled forward to meet me. My brother-in-lawwas sitting at a table by the window writing in a notebook by the lastlight of the waning day; he gave me a glance laden with affairs towhich I was superfluous. A red-eyed, red-headed man, evidently thesinger, was standing in the middle of the room; it must have been inconformity with some irresistible law of nature that his hair stood outround his head in the orthodox poetic aureole.

  In spite of the painful publicity of the moment there was but onecourse open to me. I tendered to my hostess the corpse of the drake,with abject apologies and explanations. To say that Mrs. Brickleyaccepted them favourably is quite inadequate. She heaped insults uponthe drake, for his age, for his ugliness, for his temerity in gettingin my way; she, in fact, accepted his slaughter in the light of apersonal favour and an excellent jest combined, and passed rapidly onto explain that the company consisted of a few of the neighbours thatwas gathered to talk to the gentleman, and to be singing "them owldsongs" for him; their number and their zeal being entirely due to thedeep personal regard entertained for me by Hare Island. She furthermentioned that it was Shrove Tuesday, and that people should "jollythemselves" before Lent. I was hurriedly conveyed to what is known as"Back in the room," a blend of best parlour and bedroom, with animmense bed in the corner. A fire was lighted, by the simple method ofimporting most of the kitchen fire, bodily, in a bucket, and placing iton the hearth, and I was conjured to "sthrip" and to put on a new suitof clothes belonging to my host while my own were being dried. Hehimself valeted me, inaugurating the ceremony with a tumbler of hotwhisky and water. The suit of new clothes was of the thickest bluecloth, stiff as boards, and they smelt horribly of stale turf smoke.The discovery that the trousers consisted of but a leg and a half wasstartling; I had forgotten this aspect of the case, but now, in theproprietor's presence, it was impossible to withdraw from the loan. Icould, at all events, remain perdu. Through all these preparations Iwas aware of highly incensed and fruitless callings for "Pidge"; ofPeter Cadogan no tidings were forthcoming, and although a conventionalsense of honour withheld me from disclosing the information I mighthave given about the young lady, it did not deter me from mentallypreparing a warm reception for her squire.

  I sat by the fire in regal seclusion, with my clothes steaming on achair opposite to me, and the strong glow of the red turf scorching theshin that was unprotected. Maria and Minx, also steaming, sat inexquisite serenity in front of the blaze, retiring every now and thento fling themselves, panting, on a cold space of floor. The hot whiskyand water sent its vulgar and entirely acceptable consolations into thefrozen recesses of my being, a feeling of sociability stole upon me; Ifelt magnanimously pleased at the thought that Maxwell, at least, hadhad a perfectly successful day; I glowed with gratitude towards ConBrickley and his wife.

  Judged by the usual test of hostesses, that is to say, noise, the_conversazione_ in Maxwell's honour was a high success. Gabble andhum, harangue and argument, and, through all, Maxwell's unemotionaleducated voice in discussion with the poet. Scraps of English here andthere presently told me that the talk had centred itself upon thetragedy of the drake. I had the gratification of hearing Mrs. Brickleyinform her friends that "if that owld dhrake was shot, itself, he wasin the want of it, and divil mend him, going parading there till he hadthe Major put asthray! Sure that's the gintleman that's like a child!and Pidge could tell ye the same."

  "Faith and thrue for ye," said another apologist, also female, "and yewouldn't blame him if he didn't leave duck nor dhrake livin' aftherhim, with the annoyance he got from thim that should be tinding him,and he bloated with the walk and all!"

  (I may, in my own interest, explain that this unattractive descriptionmerely implied that I was heated from excessive exercise.)

  "And as for the same Pidge," broke in Mrs. Brickley with sudden fire,"when I ketch her it isn't to bate her I'll go, no! but to dhrag her bythe hair o' the head round the kitchen."

  These agreeable anticipations were interrupted by other voices. Someone named Paddy was called upon to sing the song about Ned Flaherty'sdrake.

  "Sing up, Paddy boy, for the gentleman! Arrah, what ails ye, Paddy!Don't be ashamed at all!"

  "'Tis a lovely song, your honour, sir!" (this to my brother-in-law).

  "Is it an ancient song?" I heard Maxwell enquire with serious eagerness.

  "It is, your honour; 'twas himself made it up lasht year, and he singsit beautiful! Oh! Paddy's a perfect modulator!"

  With curiosity stimulated by this mysterious encomium I rose softly andhalf opened the door in order to obtain a view of the Modulator. Alamp with a glaring tin reflector was on the table beside Maxwell; itillumined Paddy, the Modulator, an incredibly freckled youth, standingin front of my brother-in-law, with eyes fixed on the ground and armshanging limply at his sides, like a prisoner awaiting sentence. Itillumined also the artistic contempt on the elder Poet's countenance,and further revealed to me the fact that from twenty-five to thirty menand women were packed into the small kitchen.

  The Modulator opened with a long-drawn and nasal cadenza, suggestive ofthe droning preliminary canter of a bagpipe, which merged into thestatement that

  The poor little fella', His legs they were yella', His bosom was blue, he could swim like a hake; But some wicked savage, To grease his white cabbage, Murdered Ned Flaherty's beautiful dhrake!

  THE MODULATOR OPENED WITH A LONG-DRAWN AND NASAL CADENZA]

  Riotous applause followed on this startlingly appropriate requiem.Maxwell coldly laid down his stylograph with the manner of a reporterduring an unimportant speech; the Poet took a clay pipe out of hispocket and examined its contents with an air of detachment; Paddy, witha countenance of undiminished gloom, prepared the way for the nextverse with some half-dozen jig-steps, ending with a sledge-hammer stampon the earthen floor. Fresh thunders of approval greeted the effort.It seemed to me that Con Brickley's
hospitality had been a trifleexcessive; I even meditated a hint to that effect, but neither my hostnor my hostess was visible. They were apparently holding an overflowmeeting in a room at the other end of the house, and I noticed thatalthough there was a steady flow of passers in and out between it andthe kitchen, the door was carefully closed after each opening.

  Suddenly the lamp on Maxwell's table flared up smokily as the door ofthe house was burst open. The second verse of the drake's elegy ceasedat its first line. A woman whom I recognised as Kate Keohane, sisterof the Widower, drove her way into the kitchen, sweeping back thepeople on either side of her with her arms, as though she was swimming.Her face was scarlet.

  "Is Jer Keohane within here?" she shouted.

  "He is not!" replied several voices.

  Instantly the door of the inner room flew open, and like a stag (or atom-cat, either simile would serve), answering the challenge of arival, Mrs. Brickley came forth.

  "Is it yer brother you're wantin', ma'am?" she said with loftypoliteness. "Ye can search out the house for him if ye like. It'slittle he troubles my house or myself now, thanks be to God, and to theMagistrates that took my part before all that was in the Coort-house!Me that he had goin' in dhread o' me life, with him afther me always inme thrack like a lap-dog!"

  "And who has him enticed now but your own daughther?" shrieked MissKeohane with lightning rapidity. "Isn't Ellen, the Chapel-woman,afther tellin' me she seen herself and himself shneakin' downbehindside the chapel, like they'd be goin' aisht to the far sthrand,and she dhressed out, and the coat she stole from Mrs. Yeates on herand a bundle in her hand! Sure doesn't the world know she has herpassage paid to Ameriky this two months!"

  "Ye lie!" panted Mrs. Brickley, catching her antagonist by the arm, notin attack, but in the the awful truce of mutual panic.

  Miss Keohane flung her off, only the better to gather force for theprolonged and direful howl of which she delivered herself.

  "If she didn't come here with him it's to Ameriky she's taken him!Look in yer box an' ye'll see where she got the passage money! She hasthe boat's share taken from ye in spite of yer teeth!" Miss Keohanehere dropped upon her knees. "An' I pray," she continued, lyrically,"that the devil may melt her, the same as ye'd melt the froth offporther----"

  Groans, hoots, and drunken laughter overwhelmed the close of thisaspiration. Oblivious of my costume, I stepped forward, with theintention of attracting Maxwell's attention, and withdrawing him andmyself as swiftly and unobtrusively as possible from a position thatthreatened to become too hot to hold us.

  Even as I did so, I saw in the dark blue space of the open door a facethat was strangely familiar, a face at once civilised and martial,whose gaze was set incredulously upon me.

  "Here's the Polis!" squeaked a little girl.

  The poet blew out the lamp. The house was in an instant full of thevoiceless and strenuous shoving and trampling of people trying toescape. I heard the table go over with a crash, and could only supposethat Maxwell had gone with it, and Maria and Minx, convinced that acat-hunt was at the root of the matter, barked deafeningly andunceasingly.

  In a blinding flash of insight I realised that my brother-in-law and Ihad been taken red-handed in a "Shebeen," that is to say, a house inwhich drink is illicitly sold without a license.

  The Police Sergeant was egregiously tactful. During the conversationthat I held with him in the inner room he did not permit his eye tocondescend lower than the top button of Mr. Brickley's coat, aconsideration that but served to make me more conscious of thehumiliating deficiency below, nor did it deviate towards the emptytumbler, with the incriminating spoon in it, that stood on the table.

  He explained to me and to Maxwell, whose presence I felt to be my solelink with respectability, that the raid had been planned in consequenceof information received after the trial.

  "I was going to you, sir, to sign the warrant, but Mr. Knox and Dr.Hickey signed it for us. It was Mr. Knox advised us to come hereto-day. We've found three half-barrels of porter under the bed in theroom over there, and about two gallons of potheen hid under fishingnets. I'll have about thirty summonses out of it."

  The Sergeant's manner was distressingly apologetic. I said nothing,but my heart burned within me as I recognised the hand of Flurry Knox.

  THE SERGEANT'S MANNER WAS DISTRESSINGLY APOLOGETIC]

  "In case you might be looking for your man Cadogan, sir," went on theSergeant, "we seen him in a boat, with two other parties, a man and awoman, going to the mainland when we were coming over. The man thatwas pulling the other oar had the appearance of having drink taken."

  A second flash, less blinding than the first, but equally illuminative,revealed to me that the brown boots, the flannel suit, had been awedding garment, the predetermined attire of the Best Man, and a thirdrecalled the fact that Shrove Tuesday was the last day between this andEaster on which a marriage could take place.

  Maxwell and I went back with the police, and Maxwell explained to me atsome length the origin of the word shebeen. As I neared the mainland,which to-morrow would ring with Flurry's artistic version of the day'sevents, the future held but one bright spot, the thought of puttingPeter Cadogan to fire and sword.

  But even that was denied to me. It must have been at the identicalmoment that my cook, Mrs. Cadogan (aunt of the missing Peter), wasplacing her wedding ring in the Shrove Tuesday pancakes that evening,that my establishment was felled as one man by tidings that stillremain preeminent among the sensations of Shreelane. They reached me,irrepressibly, with the coffee.

  Hard on the heels of the flushed parlour-maid followed the flat andheavy tread of Mrs. Cadogan, who, like the avenging deities, washabitually shod with felt.

  "And now, sir, what do ye say to Pether Cadogan!" she began, launchingthe enigma into space from the obscurity of the deep doorway. "What doye say to him now? The raving scamp!"

  I replied that I had a great deal to say to him, and that if I might sofar trespass on his leisure as to request his presence in the hall, Iwould say it.

  "Hall is it!" echoed Peter's aunt in bitter wrath. "It's my heart'sgrief that he ever stood in Shreelane hall to dhraw disgrace on me andon yer Honour! God forgive me, when I heard it I had to spit! Himselfand Bridget Brickley got married in Skebawn this evening and the two o'them is gone to Ameriky on the thrain to-night, and it's all I'll sayfor her, whatever sort of a thrash she is, she's good enough for him!"There was a pause while one might pant twice.

  "I'll tell ye no lie. If I had a gun in me hand, I'd shoot him like abird! I'd down the brat!"

  The avenging deity retired.

  What part the Widower proposed to play in the day's proceedings willnever be clearly known. He was picked up next day in Hare IslandSound, drifting seaward in the boat whose "share" had formed themarriage portion of Mrs. Peter Cadogan. Both oars were gone; thereremained to him an empty bottle of "potheen," and a bucket. He wasrowing the boat with the bucket.