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 Over the Garden Wall 
 
 ELEANOR VISCOUNTESS TORRINGTON 
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 People of the Darkness 
 Fields of Sleep 
 A Heritage of Dust 
 The Storm Centre 
 Peril Island 
 The Mummy 
 Mektoub 
 Pong Ho 
 
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 Chun Yut 
 Green Butterflies 
 Rats’ Castle 
 The Stones of Khor 
 Rogues of the North 
 When Nile was Young 
 The Gold of the Sunset 
 Wisdom’s Daughter 
 She and Allan 
 A Breaker of Ships 
 The Red Vulture 
 The Qualified Adventurer 
 Puppets of Fate 
 The Queen of Atlantis 
 The Inheritance of Jean Trouve 
 City of Wonder 
 
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 HELEN M. FAIRLEY 
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 ROY BRIDGES 
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 Sir H. RIDER HAGGARD 
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 SELWYN J EPSON 
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 The Bed Stain 
 
 AOHMED ABDULLAH 
 
 The Bine-Eyed Mancha 
 
 ACHMED ABDULLAH 
 
 Queen Lucin E. F. BENSON 
 Robin Linnet E. F. BENSON 
 
 The Bars of Iron 
 
 ETHEL M. DELL 
 
 The Hundredth Chance 
 
 ETHEL M. DELL 
 
 Tressider’s Sister 
 
 ISABEL O. CLARKE 
 
 The Light on the Lagoon 
 
 ISABEL C. CLARKE 
 
 Average Cabins 
 
 ISABEL C. CLARKE 
 
 Ursula Finch 
 
 ISABEL C. CLARKE 
 
 Lady Trent’s Daughter 
 
 ISABEL C. CLARKE 
 
 The Fotter’s House 
 
 ISABEL C. CLARKE 
 
 Rooted Out 
 
 DOROTHEA CONYERS 
 
 Irish Stew 
 
 DOROTHEA CONYERS 
 
 A Girl for Sale 
 
 MABEL BARNES-GRUNDY 
 
 The Girl at the ’Bacca Shop 
 
 CHARLES GARVICE 
 
 The Fire Opal 
 
 HELEN PROTHERO LEWIS 
 
 What Timmy Did 
 
 Mrs. BELLOC LOWNDES 
 
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 DIANA PATRICK 
 
 Barbara Justice 
 
 DIANA PATRICK 
 
 Sonia Married 
 
 STEPHEN McKENNA 
 
 The Order o' Release 
 
 H. de VERE 8TACPOOLE 
 
 Satan 
 
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 Virginia of the Rhodesians 
 
 CYNTHIA STOCKLEY 
 
 My Lady Frivol 
 
 ROSA N. CAREY 
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 C. N. <fe A. M- WILLIAMSON 
 Dusk 
 
 MARIE BJELKB PETERSEN 
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 E. NESBIT 
 
 Truth in a Circle 
 
 MADAME ALBANESI 
 
 The Woman Who Knew 
 
 MAX PEMBERTON 
 
 Red, White and Grev 
 
 LADY MILES 
 
 The Red Flame LADY MILES 
 Ralph Carey LADY MILES 
 Courage KATHLYN RHODES 
 
 The Post-War Girl 
 
 BERTA RUCK 
 
 The Road to Anywhere RITA 
 Conjugal Rights RITA 
 
 Madge Hinton’s Husbands 
 MARGARET BAILLIE 
 
 SAUNDERS 
 
 The Honest Man 
 
 UNA L. SILBERRAD 
 
 Peter’s People 
 
 CURTIS YORKE 
 
 The Life of Isobel Eine 
 
 PEGGY WEBLING 
 
 The Fruitless Orchard 
 
 PEGGY WEBLING 
 
 Worlds Apart 
 
 M. P. WILLCOCKS 
 
 A Remedy Against Sin 
 
 W. B. MAXWEL L 
 
 A Little More W. B. MAXWELL 
 
IRISH STEW 
 
 By DOROTHEA CONYERS :: 
 
 Author of “ The Strayings of Sandy,” etc., etc. 
 
 SECOND EDITION 
 
 LONDON: HUTCHINSON & CO. 
 PATERNOSTER ROW 
 
rV 
 
THE STORY OF DARBY O’TOOLE 
 

 
IRISH STEW 
 
 THE STORY OF DARBY OTOOLE 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 HOW HE GREW UP AND SAW THE DAUGHTER OF THE 
 GERALDINES 
 
 W HEN Darby OToole beginned to notice the 
 wurruld which he lived in, it dawned on 
 him in a tumult of sphlendid frowning- 
 crests, with bare scarred sides, shlate blue 
 and green in the sunshine, furrowed be white 
 spoutin' streams where the thick rain fell, mist-veiled, 
 purple and mysterious in the haze ; in a vista of smooth 
 land-locked say, an' beyond it, wild tossin' waves, 
 cornin' in upon miles of goulden sand ; in wontherfui 
 many-coloured boglands, flecked with heather in 
 autumn, full of deep pools where water-lilies grew, an' 
 pock-marked be little stacks of turf cut out from the 
 deep threnches. 
 
 Darby nivir knew which he liked best : to climb the 
 stheep sides of the mountains, or clamber searchin' for 
 eagles' nests in the pass an' watch the foxes an' the hares 
 spring up before him ; to boat on the say and catch 
 mackerel and whiting on heavy lines, or to paddle across 
 the wild bogs and to the brown lakes which teemed with 
 trout, and come home drippin' to his homely dinner. 
 With all these gran' things there was the grandest of all, 
 his mother. She tall an' straight an' shlim, with gould 
 hair on her like a princess, and lookin' but a shlip of a 
 gerril as she walked out. 
 
 The little cottage ov thim was but big stones piled up, 
 with no morthar to hould it, an' cowld it was in winther 
 
12 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 whin the west wind'd come schrechin' in. Didn't 
 Honora O'Toole an' an ould man she had with her rise 
 it all thimselves, where a rooned cabin had stood ? The 
 ould man died, an' the white hands of her that the people 
 had stared at grew brown an' hard, for she dug her own 
 little square of pyates, and pulled the say wrack from the 
 beach, an' caught fish enough to live on herself from the 
 rocks, or out in a coracle, if she got the loan of one from 
 the neighbours. She wore but the common short skirt 
 an' a shawl over her goulden head, and yet the Conne- 
 mara wimmin was afraid of her an' nivir made free with 
 her. She'd go to no wakes an' no weddin's, excusin' 
 herself always, an' times she'd climb the high hills or 
 the Pass of Salruck an' look out, out, shadin' her eyes up 
 towards Mayo ; an’ the eyelids of her would be red an' 
 she cornin' home. An' times she'd go to the little wild 
 graveyard an' kneel there prayin', prayin', with all 
 the sorrows of the wurruld on her face. 
 
 All this time Darby was growin' big an' sthrong an' 
 tall, for his mother she nivir stinted him. She tramped 
 to Westport once, and she came back with a cow, an’ 
 with that an' a sheep or two, an' the fish they cot, an’ 
 a goat, they got on. Whin Darby was tin he was 
 straight an' strong an' able to do a man's work, but he 
 was the wild lad always, an' 'twas off he'd be for eggs, 
 up the crags, or into the muddy lakes across the 
 Killeries, or snarin' the white trout in the river* or 
 sh wimmin' in the say when his mother was workin' 
 patient and quiet in her gardin or out cat chin' his 
 • dinner be the say. Some lamin' she gave him, strange 
 lamin' that none of the neighbours knew, an' he was 
 the light of her eyes, was Darby. 
 
 At fifteen there was none like him about. He had 
 red-gould hair and honest deep blue eyes, an' the mouth 
 ov him was tindther an' sweet like his mother's ; but the 
 big square chin on him would stick out like a bull-dog's, 
 an' 'twas ill crossin' him even thin. 
 
 Didn't he whip up Mikey Joyce and Patsy Mortimer, 
 an' he to find them dhrowndin' a little puppy, an' with one 
 
THE STORY OF DARBY O’TOOLE 13 
 
 undther ache arm he walks them along the cliff edge 
 till ’twas deep and straight below. 
 
 “ Let ye taste it for yeselves,” says he, and dhrops 
 thim in, an’ whin he saw nayther could swim, he dives 
 off the rock an’ pulls thim to land. “ There ! ” says 
 Darby, says he. “ Was it good to be lookin’ for 
 breath ? ” says he, an’ he sthrokes the little whimperin’ 
 pup an’ takes it home. 
 
 He was the ill boy to cross, an’ the brave boy to help 
 ye, but though all the gerrils’d look up an’ smile he 
 nivir noticed wan ov thim. 
 
 Faix, they knew there would be murther if he came 
 coortin’, for he had not a penny of value but the cow 
 an’ the calf, but they’d have risked it all if he’d look 
 their way. 
 
 When the sthorums came in winther, whippin’ the 
 say to a track of foam, an’ outside the harbours it 
 piled up green an’ terrible, ye could not kape Darby in. 
 His mother’d sit watchin’, waitin’, down on the shore 
 herself till she’d see him come on the rocks back to her, 
 an’ thin she’d smile tindther as a gerril. 
 
 The cake’d be baked an’ a egg ready — ’twas a big 
 cake Darby wanted. “ An’ thank God ye’re home 
 to me,” she’d say, “ Darby asthore ! ” 
 
 But one night, when all the wurruld was howlin’ mad, 
 whin the say was heaped up from its bed over rocks 
 that nivir felt it, an’ the sthreams were pelting down 
 the hills with the roar of rivers, an’ ould Mywl Rhea was 
 hid in the great mists, Darby did not come. The 
 neighbours passin’ gave Honora comfort — “ The wild 
 felly was off across to Mayo, maybe, and could not cross 
 back” — for they were sorry for her, an’ she waitin’, 
 waitin’, with the heartbreak in her eyes. 
 
 ’Twas near to midnight whin Darby came in. He 
 was cot in the wind, and he had walked around by 
 Leenane. But for once Honora did not smile, but 
 sobbed an’ cried bither with her goulden head on his 
 wet coat. 
 
 “ One Darby was tuk from me be threachery an’ 
 
14 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 the soord," says she. “ Let me kape the other. Oh, 
 let me kape the other ” 
 
 “ Be the sword ?" says Darby, quick-like. “ Was 
 that how me father wint, mother ?" says he. 
 
 “ Yer father/' she says. " Ah, nivir mind," an’ 
 puts bread before him an' biles tay ; but Darby would 
 hear it all. Eighteen he was then — sthraight an' tall 
 an' sphlendid. 
 
 “ Nivir one wurd did you tell of me father, mother," 
 says he, “ but before I break bread I will hear now." 
 
 Thin she up an' tould him. How that she was a 
 dather of the O'Neills, that had a gran' castle away the 
 far ind of Mayo, an' married Darby O'Toole, his father, 
 an' she but a shlip of fifteen. The gran' place they had 
 with cows an' sheep an' pigs an sarving-men an' wimmin, 
 an' life was as gould to them as the mists of Mywl Rhea 
 whin the sun'd catch thim. But there was wickedness 
 in the wurruld. Before she married, the Earl of 
 O’ Shannassey sot his eyes on her and came coortin'. 
 A big black man he was — Dermod Dhu they called him — 
 an' the sthrongest man in all Ireland. But though he 
 came on a black horse, with silver thrappins' an' a 
 goulden bit, she wanted none but simple Darby O'Toole, 
 with blue eyes and deep red hair, “ the same as ye'r 
 own," says she, “ though not so big as ye, Darby — not 
 so big." 
 
 He swore revenge, did the Earl of O’Shannassey. 
 And then God sent him to the wars, and happy Honora 
 thought 'twould all be forgot. But when he came 
 home he rode over, smilin’ an civil, with a throup of wild 
 soldiers at his back." 
 
 “ 'Twas a mom in August," says she, “an I was 
 all in white, lookin' out with ye'r father at the goulden 
 com. The house was sthrong, an' there was plenty min 
 betune that an' the O'Neills ; but seein' him come 
 smilin' they called no one. He rode up, an' a great 
 bow he med, an' he passed the top ov the momin' to us. 
 
 “ ‘ An' will ye come out, Darby O'Toole ? ' says he, 
 ‘ to sphake to me ? * 
 
THE STORY OF DARBY OTOOLE 
 
 15 
 
 “ An' he walked out/' sobbed Honora, “ with the 
 sun shinin’ on the hair of him, that was like the ripe 
 chestnuts whin ye’d split the husks, an’ the blue eyes 
 of him honest an’ trustin’, an’ I waited, Darby, with 
 ye in me arrums, thinkin’ Dermod Dhu’d come in — I 
 can see it yit,” says she, “ the cornfields yelly all around 
 — it was August thin — an’ the turf sthacked agin the 
 winther, an’ a’ the mountains clear ov mist. But whin 
 he got close to Black Dermod, the heart in me turned to 
 sthone, for I saw the steel flash in the light ov the sun. 
 An’ ” 
 
 “ 4 That for the gerril ye sthole from me,’ he 
 cries — ‘ that’s what O’Shannassey gives to thim that 
 cross’m ! ’ 
 
 “ An’ down wint me man dead an’ sthill, the blood 
 flowin’ from him bathin’ the feet of Dermod’s horse. 
 An’ I saw the tin min that follyed O’Shannassey were 
 but a few, for out were cornin’ more an’ more an’ more. 
 They shwooped like hawks into the house, they pulled 
 me, sthone sthill, to the side of me man ; they burned 
 the house before me eyes, an’ the com an’ the hay, an’ 
 I niver moved. 
 
 " ‘ Do ye see, Honora O’Toole ? ’ says O’Shannassey, 
 says he. 
 
 “ ‘ I see,’ says I. ‘ An’ may the sight blind ye yet, 
 Dermod Dhu,’ says I. 
 
 “ He led me away to the sands. He put ye an’ meself 
 an’ old Shamus in a canno and shoved it off. But he 
 swore if ever we came again to Mayo that he would 
 do to me father an’ mother an’ brothers even as he had 
 to me. An’ I know not if he killed thim or no,” said 
 Honora, " for the raison was near to leave me. IfTuk 
 us two days to get here, and the neighbours sheltered 
 us till we put up the house. But I nivir tould ye. 
 Darby, me son, for fear ” An she shivered. 
 
 “ For fear,” says he, “ that I would kill Dermod 
 O’Shannassey. An that I will do,” says he, " before 
 the wurruld is a week oulder.” 
 
 “ I heard tell he was blinded,” whispered Honora. 
 
i6 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 “ Oh, Darby asthore, I will lose you too. An’ yet I’m 
 glad ye know,” she says, proud-like. 
 
 The great wind died in the night, leavin’ the say tom 
 and wild with the batin’ ov it, an’ the wather sphoutin' 
 down the hills, an’ ould Mywl Rhea with his head 
 covered in the mists ; but Darby was away before the 
 sun was over the crest of the Bens down on Loch Fee. 
 He tuk a bit ov bread an’ his fishin’ lines, an’ the great 
 pole he’d hop the sthreams with, an’ Honora sat quiet 
 spinnin’ wool at her door — a quare light in her eyes. 
 
 Darby had his own coracle, an’ he rowed the Killery an’ 
 left it there, an’ then away across the sands an’ the sand- 
 hills. There were places his feet sunk, an’ the water below 
 sucked at him, and places where was firm an’ goulden, 
 the blue waters dancin’ down on it, an’ the say birds an’ 
 the cormorants coverin’ the black rocks. Thin he’d 
 cut off a comer over the dhry hills of sand, all white an’ 
 shining, with little shamerogues (shamrocks) runnin’ 
 over the sand, an’ the coorse grass wavin’ dhry an’ burnt, 
 his feet marks plain as he wint, an’ the rabbits scuttlin’ 
 before him. Always he kep’ the coast close to his left 
 hand, with the waves batherin’ down on the sands. 
 Times he’d dip into valleys with sthreams rushin’ 
 through them, leapin’ from rock to rock afther the flood, 
 an’ the heather-bells pink an’ red an’ purple spreadin’ 
 over the ground. ’Twas not gone yet, it only being 
 September. Darby would swing across the sthreams 
 on his pole more for fun than becos he minded the wet. 
 Whin he was hungry he fished off the rocks, an’ the 
 lucky finger bein’ with him he never missed a catch ; 
 thin he’d ask for a bit of turf from a house, an’ kindle 
 a fire with the driftwood, and take a drink of wather, 
 for he would not eat the bread the people offered him, 
 kindly meant though it was. So he shoved on an’ on, 
 through whist places where he knew the fairies were 
 whispering behind the rocks an’ the heather ; sleeping 
 close to the say, for he would be away from the little 
 people, an’ they will not walk upon the sands. On and 
 on till he came to a counthry full of deep rivers an’ broad 
 
THE STORY OF DARBY OTOOLE 17 
 
 dykes, an' a desolate look upon it all. There was com 
 growin' gould in the sun, an’ turf stacks piled, an 1 grass- 
 cocks med up, but near these 'd surely stand the ruined 
 walls of a cabin, with the black fire upon the stones. 
 Very hard the face of Darby grew an' very set as he 
 travelled the land. He come at last to the brow of a 
 sandhill all sprinkled gould with shamerogues, an* saw a 
 gran' castle sthandin’ grey an' cowld, with a moat 
 around it, an’ a high wall behind that, an’ a lot of small 
 cabins gathered inside the wall. Away further he could 
 see many trees an' the glimpse of a house amongst them, 
 an' close to that, further on, a smaller castle. Then the 
 heart lepped up within him, for he knew 'twas there his 
 father had lived an' — died. 
 
 He was one man alone, but he walked on up to the 
 great gates an' blew a blasht on the horn there. The 
 place was lonesome-like, the heather outside the gate all 
 thrampled be horses' hoofs, an' there was but one senthry 
 settin' at the gate, a quare soort ov a uniform on him. 
 
 " An' who might you be ? " he said to Darby, blinkin' 
 up at him. 
 
 Darby up an' tould him. He was one Darby O'Toole 
 from Connemara, come to see the Earl of O'Shannassey. 
 
 “ Then, Darby O’Toole," says the man, says he, “ go 
 home to Connemara and till thim there ye were at the 
 doorstep of the sthrongest man in Ireland, an' the biggest 
 — tho' ye're big yerself. An' if ye want a taste to ate," 
 says the senthry, says he, sneerin', “ I have a cowld 
 pyatee." 
 
 Now Darby says he only took the man quiet an' aisy 
 an' landed him gently across the yard. But faix, the 
 man sat where he'd put him, rubbin' his sore bones, for 
 Darby had tossed him twinty yards on to a heap of turf 
 the way he'd fall soft. 
 
 “ Mother of Hiven ! " says O'Shannassey's man, 
 “ there is a sthronger man than the Earl on earth." 
 
 "Sit there," says Darby, movin' on. The door of 
 the house was open too ; but he sthopped, steppin' 
 back, for there came into it suddint a tall slip of a gerril. 
 
i8 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 with a gould band on her head, an' that houldin' back a 
 cloud of hair, black as night an' soft as silk, with quare 
 red lights where the sun'd catch it. But the eyes she 
 shaded from the light were blue as Darby's own. She 
 wore a white gown dingin' round her — an' Darby's 
 heart lepped again. 
 
 " I was wearin' a white gown," his mother had tould 
 him, " that day." 
 
 "An' who may you be ? " says the young gerril, says 
 she. 
 
 An' Darby up an' tould her — but bashful like — an' 
 he threw an eye back at the man on the turf sthack. 
 
 "Iam Fiona Geraldine," says she, " niece to the Earl. 
 What bizness have you here ? " 
 
 "Me bizness is with Dermod O'Shannassey," says 
 Darby, throwin' his head up. " An' 'tis no gerril's 
 bizness," says he. 
 
 " Ye are not from these parts," she says, lookin' at 
 him. " Me uncle is in his chair above. He has not 
 moved from it for a year — except when they carry him 
 out. An' he is blind." 
 
 " Blind ! " says Darby, soft-like. " Blind ? Is he so 
 ould, then ? " 
 
 Fiona shook her head, an' the hair ov her was like a 
 cloud cornin' in the dusk upon Mywl Rhea. 
 
 " They were bumin' a house," says she, "an' a flame 
 ov fire wheeled with the wind and struck his eyes." 
 
 She spoke more scornful than sorrowful, an' all the 
 time she looked at Darby — he so tall an' straight, with 
 the hair on him like a ripe chestnut, an' his brave blue 
 eyes an' sweet mouth, an' chin that belied the sweetness. 
 
 "They are big men in Connemara, Darby O'Toole," 
 says she. " An' now come in an’ ate an' then be gone. 
 Dermod an' Breffni are huntin', but 'twould not be well 
 for ye if they came. An' I cannot think," says she, 
 " how Martin Coyne let you in," she says, puzzled. 
 
 "He had bizness be the turf sthack," said Darby, 
 blushin'. 
 
 There were rushes strewed on the floor, an' great hounds 
 
THE STORY OF DARBY OTOOLE 19 
 
 stretched out on them, an’ Darby was sthandin' with 
 the bither revenge wakenin' in him, not knowin' what to 
 do, when a great voice shook the castle, cryin' to know 
 who was below. 
 
 "He's on us now," says Fiona, says she. "An' up 
 we musht go." 
 
 " I had to see him," says Darby. 
 
 They walked up the stone steps and into a big room, 
 and there, in a great chair, sat Dermod, Earl of 
 O'Shannassey. The huge bulk of him filled the chair, an' 
 the legs of him was like oak saplin's, an' the big, hairy 
 knotted hands ov him hung down, claspin' an' unclaspin', 
 an' the wickedness ovhim was cut in furrows on his face 
 as deep as the sthreams cut down the mountain. 
 
 "An' who is there," says the Earl, says he, "who 
 with the soft voice of a Connemara man ? " 
 
 Then the angry heart of Darby O'Toole bate harder 
 than ever, for he could not kill a blind man, an' he 
 helpless an' ould. So must his father's murder go 
 unavenged. The bate of the say on the beach came 
 hummin' through the winders, an' Darby hung his head 
 sorryful an' helpless. 
 
 " Who are ye ? " says Dermod O'Shannassey soft an' 
 civil. 
 
 "A — bye — that come to see ye," says Darby, says 
 he, a thrimble in his voice. " Hearin' ov ye — Earl ov 
 O'Shannassey." 
 
 The ould Earl's head wint up like a dog scentin' 
 rabbits. 
 
 "An' what is he like, this bye," he says to Fiona, 
 " that I may see him ? " 
 
 " He is tall, grandfather," says Fiona, " an' straight, 
 with deep red hair an' blue eyes an' a mouth that's " 
 
 Darby sthopped her, for he was a modest bye, and 
 blushed to hear her talk of his eyes an' mouth. 
 
 " Ah — h ! " says the Earl, says he. " Ah — h ! " 
 an' nodded his head. " I know ye for an O’Toole," says 
 he, "an' for that I am an ould man and sightless, dhraw 
 near an' shake me hand." 
 
20 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 With that Fiona gave a little gasp. She laid her own 
 hand on Darby's, an' 'twas like as a fleck of say-foam 
 fell on brown turf. 
 
 ‘'No," she whispered. “ Ah, no! boy from Conne- 
 mara." 
 
 But the heart of Darby was heavy and sore. Would 
 not his mother, Honora, have tould him now to forgive 
 all ? He took a sthep nearer the chair. 
 
 “ No ! " says Fiona, says she. " No," she whispered 
 quick. “ I cannot see ye kilt," says she. “ For if he 
 grips ye, he will crush ye'r hands till the bones is as the 
 soft bogs," says she, “ an' hould both an' sthab ye. I 
 have seen it done," says she, the tear-drops in her 
 eyes. “ Oh, I have seen it done ! " 
 
 “ It is not fit, Earl of Shannassey," says Darby, 
 " that I should shake ye hand — for I am Darby OToole, " 
 says he, “ whose father ye murthered. But I cannot 
 hurt ye, an' ye blind." 
 
 “ I am ould an' sightless," says the ould Earl. “ An' 
 me sins is heavy on me, Darby O'Toole. Let the heart 
 melt in ye an' give me a grip of ye'r hands for 
 friendship," says he. 
 
 Fiona was gone. Darby was cornin' nearer quick, 
 for he could not believe what the gerril had said, when 
 he saw the shine ov blue stheel, an' it was a dagger restin' 
 by O’Shannassey's hand. He held back then, lookin' 
 at the great hairy hands held out, an' the smile on the 
 ould man's face, that was as if the sun shone on the 
 mountain rocks, an' he heard a rustle behind him. 
 
 There was Fiona, an’ she held the quarter of a kid in 
 her hand. “ If ye do not believe me, hould it out," she 
 says. “ He will close his hands quick an' not know what 
 is in them." 
 
 “ Both hands in mine," says the ould man, gentle an* 
 entratin'. “ Both. To show ye forgive." 
 
 “ Here," says Darby. With that the Earl cot the kid, 
 and in one second 'twas pulp in his fingers for the great 
 grip he put on it. 
 
 Darby let a groan as he saw, an' he held the kid. 
 
THE STORY OF DARBY OTOOLE 21 
 
 strugglin', then the dagger flashed twice an' agin, but 
 it met nothin' ; then Darby stood near to see what would 
 be happenin' — so near the stheel brushed his sleeve and 
 stuck in it. 
 
 “ Oh, ye fool, Darby O'Toole ! " cries the ould man, 
 pullin' at the kid that he held. “ Would I leave one ov 
 ye'r brood alive ? " he roars. The wickedness ov him 
 was alight in his face now, black as the say rocks, clear 
 as the wather in the sandy pools, roarin' as the sthreams 
 afther the rain, till 'twas terrible to be near it. He 
 sthruck an' sthruck till Darby let the kid's leg go, an' 
 then the ould man paused, for he knew he had not 
 sthruck home. 
 
 “ Have I pulled the arrum from him ? " says he, ragin'. 
 “ Is he dead, Fiona ? " 
 
 “ He is not," says Darby O'Toole, says he, an' his 
 voice rang like the bells of a church. “ I spared ye, 
 Dermod O’Shannassey," says he, “ for that ye were dark 
 (blind) an' ould an' helpless, an' ye would have mur- 
 thered me. But I am here," says Darby, says he, “ an' 
 I will spare ye no more." 
 
 The roar of the old Earl was like the wesht wind tearin' 
 through Salruck Pass ov a winther's night. The rage 
 ov him loosed his limbs, an' he, that had not sthud for 
 years, reared up out of his chair, towerin' six foot six, 
 an' more like to a big crag marchin' across the room. He 
 came foamin' an' ragin' at Darby, an' Darby raised the 
 sthaff in his hand and stud ready, but the sin of killin' 
 was lifted marciful from him — for with a sudden sthagger 
 an' a schreech the ould man wint down, sthricken be the 
 hand ov God. An' he sthiffened at Darby's feet, his face 
 dhrawn crinkled an' grey. 
 
 " He is dead," says Darby, says he, an' crossed himself 
 pious. 
 
 “ He is dead," says the Lady Fiona, “ an' they will 
 kill ye, Darby O’Toole, when they come back. Breffni 
 is*Earl now," says she ; “ Earl in this one's place. An' 
 worse he will be." 
 
 They went out of the room quick an' down the sthairs : 
 
22 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 an' Fiona, she took a can ov milk an' a piece ov bread 
 that Darby should ate. 
 
 " I tould — saved ye,” says she, ” becos there was one 
 onst that loved me, one of the O'Neills beyant, an' I 
 up an' tould him he was me man an' I would marry 
 with him. An' thin he came here ; he went upsthairs 
 to shake hands, an' thin before me eyes the hands was 
 broke on him, an' I saw him stabbed — there's many 
 have gone that way,” says Fiona, sobbin'. “ Many 
 — many, for the ould Earl was the wickedest man on 
 earth,” says she. 
 
 They sat in the big room an' she tould Darby of her 
 life ; an' the love that comes but onst to a man, it fell on 
 Darby as he listened. She tould him how she had a gran' 
 castle ov her own, down towards Connemara, but they 
 would not let her free to go to it unless she paid thim one 
 thousand goulden pounds, for they had some bit o v paper 
 agin her. And Black Dermod, the second son, wanted 
 to marry her — 'twas for that her lover was kilt — so that 
 betune them all she lived in fear an' sadness, in fear an' 
 sadness. 
 
 ” I do wandther be the say,” she said, “ an' out in the 
 boats alone, till they tell me I am no Geraldine, but a 
 wild gerril, an' down where the ruined castle is where the 
 fire darkened me grandfather, an' the ould burnt house 
 of the O'Neills. There is not a place left,” says she, 
 “ that is not burnt out, an' the bit of land robbed. Oh, 
 I am ashamed to be alive,” says she, " among them all. 
 I am, boy from Connemara.” 
 
 Darby sthud up. He was but a poor lad, but he knew 
 the blood was in him, an' the love in his heart ran swift 
 as the tides up Mayo sands. 
 
 “ Fiona, ” says he, “ cud ye forgit the young man that 's 
 dead ? ” says he, lookin' down at her. “ I am well 
 bom, Fiona,” says he. 
 
 She thrembled and grew red. With the dusk of her 
 hair about her face, she sthud lookin' back at Darby an' 
 the red brown hair on him, an' his kind mouth an' firrum 
 chin. 
 
THE STORY OF DARBY OTOOLE 
 
 23 
 
 " I was but a child, " she whispered. " I nivir thought 
 I cud forgit, but — but — 'tis like the waves outside an' 
 like other an' mountain streams/' says she, half to 
 herself. 
 
 " Ye cud forgit," says Darby, says he, with the joy 
 singing in his ears. " Ye cud forgit — an' remimber. 
 If I come back in a year," says he, " with the money to 
 buy ye out, cud ye forgit — an' remimber " 
 
 " I will," says she. " I will — I can, an' I will." 
 
 She shuk the dusk of her hair about her face, but Darby 
 brushed it back. He kissed the little white hands of 
 her, an' her smooth soft cheek, an' they forgot all as they 
 sthud hand in hand. 
 
 An' then a great roar shuk the castle. White as the 
 mists on the mountain, Fiona lepped away. 
 
 " He is not dead," she said ; " 'twas but a fit that held 
 him. An' oh, Mother of Hiven ! I hear the thrampin' 
 of horses afar off." 
 
 Then they ran out to the walls, and there far along the 
 coast was a great sight o v horsemen, back from plundther 
 and huntin'. There was but little time if Darby was to 
 get away. 
 
 But he held Fiona's hands — they were behind the 
 turret and the wall — an' kissed them, an' he gave her a 
 bit of white heather he had found cornin' across, an' she 
 gave him a five-leaved clover that she put in a case of 
 gould. 
 
 " A little woman gave it to me down on the sand- 
 hills," she said, an' Darby walked off out the great gate 
 — cool an' composed. 
 
 " Ye can git off the turf sthacknow," says he to Joyce. 
 
 " I am obliged to ye, noble giant," says Joyce, gettin' 
 
 up. 
 
 "But if ye'll take my advice," says Darby, "ye'll 
 wind a rope around ye'r hands and say I held ye up. 
 For there's throuble cornin'," says he, " an' I wish ye no 
 harrum after the little push I gave ye." 
 
 "The Earl is nisin' inside," says Joyce, thoughtful 
 like, listening to the great roars shakin' the place, " an' 
 
IRISH STEW 
 
 24 
 
 Td be obliged/' says he, “havin' a wish for me life.” 
 
 He held out his hands. 
 
 So Darby picked up a great rope and knotted it aisy 
 as ye'd knot a silk thread, and thrun Joyce down in the 
 sentry's house, an' he was scarce away whin with a 
 thrampin' an' a shakin’ came the O'Shannasseys home, 
 prisoners an' cattle with them. 
 
 It was not well to see thim whin they found the tied- 
 up man, an' the ould Earl bent and crinkled on the floor 
 above, he half dead. “ Bate he was," he said, bein' 
 ashamed to tell how he'd been fooled. 
 
 “ The man came an' the man wint," says Fiona, sthill 
 an' proud. “ I knows no more. I came downsthairs, " 
 says she. 
 
 But looking out they saw Darby black agin the glow 
 ov the evenin'. The tired horses was pulled out, an' 
 down they wint in a wherril of sand away after him. 
 
 Darby seen thim cornin', an' he laffed and turned 
 inland. They galloped fast, an' before him was a great 
 dyke of wather, but Darby set his pole an' swung across, 
 an' they an' the horses must make around or shwim. 
 Some fell in an' could not get out. Some whipped away 
 to the sands, an' so it was till dark fell, for there was 
 rivers deep an' full, an' great dykes that was playtime 
 to Darby. An' so they losht him in the darkness, waitin' 
 till the momin' to folly his footstheps in the sands ; 
 but Darby he med down to the say an' walked in the 
 ripple ov the tide, till whin the momin' broke he was far 
 away. 
 
 Yet not so far, for the sands ran crooked, an' the 
 O’Shannasseys, trackin' him to the say, bate their horses 
 on to see if they'd get him. In the flush of the dawnin' 
 he thrun out his lines off a rock to, get a fish, an' was 
 thinkin', thinkin' however would he win Fiona, and see 
 the pale face ov her, and the silk of her hair, whin he 
 saw an ould woman pullin' in a canno by herself. 
 
 “ Oh, wirra, wirrasthrue, " says she, “ I am so ould I 
 cannot pull in the canno," says she, “an' the tide is 
 risin'." 
 
THE STORY OF DARBY O'TOOLE 25 
 
 “ Get out, mother," says Darby, “ an' I will help." 
 
 With that he pulled an' he hauled, but the canno 
 sthuck in the sand ; he could make no way with her. 
 
 “ There's horsemin ridin' over the hills," says the ould 
 woman suddintly. “The O’Shannasseys are cornin', 
 Darby," says she. “ They will take me fish," says she. 
 
 He was so flusthered thin he did not wondther why she 
 knew his name an' his bizness. 
 
 “Let thim come," says he. “I will pull up ye'r 
 canno first before I run." 
 
 And thin it grew light as a feather in his hands, an' he 
 was beachin' her high an dry whin she called agin. 
 
 “They have met the soft sand," she says, “that no 
 horse can cross. An' back they must go." 
 
 Darby turned thin. He had been wondtherin' where 
 he would run to, as he saw the horses floundtherin' an' 
 failin' an' the throup of min gettin' off an' shoutin', 
 an' they seen him on the bache. 
 
 “Come with me, Darby," says the ould wummun, 
 “ across the rocks. Here is me house," says she, “ but 
 they'd find ye there." 
 
 They crossed the p^ak of rocks, an' she opened a 
 fringe of seaweed that hung down, so that Darby was in 
 a cave with white sand for a flure, an' a heather bed, an' 
 a cake ov bread an' a can ov milk beside him. 
 
 “ Ye can hide here," says she, “ an', Darby O'Toole, 
 Moma by the say does not forget. Shlape," says she, 
 “ ye are safe." 
 
 The O'Shannasseys came in time to the rocks, but no 
 man could they find, but there were thracks inland, an' 
 they follyed them, till two mile back they came on an' 
 ould woman gatherin' heather, an' that was all. 
 
 They wint back to the castle, lavin' Darby be, with 
 no notion where he came from, for the ould man could 
 not tell them ; but Darby whin he woke could find no 
 boat on the bache or see any little house among the hills. 
 But he got a bit ov white heather in his bed. So he med 
 home across the sandhills, an' thin the valleys, threadin' 
 down heather an' little shamerogues, an' he tould his 
 
26 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 mother all — she cried bitter whin she knew her people 
 had been kilt, and turned away — all save the words he 
 had had with the Lady Fiona. Honora, she looked at 
 him sweet an' sorrowful, knowin' the hour was come 
 whin Darby had a dark comer in his heart from her, his 
 mother. 
 
 “ An* ye loved her, Darby,” says she. “ Loved her 
 that is an O'Shannassey — that gerril with the dusky 
 hair.” 
 
 “ How did ye know, mother ? ” says he. 
 
 “ I am a woman, me son,” says she, “ an' have seen 
 a man and men in love. There are sweet flowers grow 
 on dark hills,” says Honora, says she. "An’ there's 
 me blessin' always with ye, Darby, me son.” 
 
 Thin Darby, whisperin', tould her all. 
 
 An' day be day he toiled be the say, with always the 
 thought on him how could he ever come be one thousand 
 goulden pounds. 
 
 The Lady Fiona waited in her castle, an' Darby cot a 
 fish be the say, an' walked all the way to Di'mond Hill 
 an med a necklace of the clear sthones, an' put by pennies 
 at times in a box he had, but he feared that he would 
 nivir have the right to see the gerril with the dusky hair 
 agin. 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 HOW DARBY O'TOOLE FOUND THE KING'S DAUGHTER 
 
 "I am a Princess,” says she, “that lay in a silken bed and 
 never walked but in the garden, but ... I would be happy 
 here,” says she, “below in ye’r cabin.” 
 
 She looked wistfully at Darby, but Darby’s eyes were away 
 so where lay the Mayo sands, an’ he scarcely heard her. An’ 
 the sighed verra deep. 
 
 I F ye go up the pass at Salruck in Connemara, as ye 
 know, ye will see the piles ov the little sthones 
 where every man that follyed the coffins through 
 laid a sthone for luck. An' the restin' places for 
 the dead thimselves, whin the min failed up or down 
 the stheep. The byes and gerrils wint away from Sal- 
 ruck across the wathers, an' some was driven out to 
 Mayo ; an' they dead, they come back down to rest 
 among the stony graveyard be the say. 
 
 The great crags tower above the pass, with the aigles 
 that ushed to nesht there thin shweepin' the air with 
 their dark wings, an' the hares and wild foxes leapt red 
 and brown from rock to rock as the mourners passed 
 below. 
 
 The wail of the keeners'd come echoin' back from the 
 rocks, with maybe the wild gushts drowning the sorrow 
 in their throats as they topped the hill, an' saw the little 
 Killery, an' the wild say outside. Slabs of sthone the 
 dead rested on, scrabbles ov rock they were berried 
 undther, with a flat rock over thim, an' the pipes laid 
 ready that the min might not be lonesome in the long 
 nights. Here and there oak'd be put at their heads, an' 
 oftener times a three planted, but scarce ever a word 
 cut to say who rested below. 
 
28 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 There was no road from Russ Roe in thim days, an' 
 but the pass to come in by. 
 
 Before the berryin' there would be the wakes, two 
 nights always, with the ould wimmin keenin' an' the 
 rushlights bumin' ; and thin the ould min gatherin' to 
 tell sthories till the dawn came grey to the windies. 
 
 Quare tales ye'd hear thin, ov fairy min on the moun- 
 tains, an' little bint people ye'd meet in the mishts, 
 whin ye'd look for ye'r sheep, an' sthrange talk they had 
 there one minnit, an' if a man thought to cross himself, 
 gone the nexht. Oh, there was quare talk there in the 
 long nights with the voices of the keeners growin' tired, 
 an' the wind sobbin' outside. 
 
 Many there was afeared to go home alone in the dawn- 
 in', with the white clouds lyin' heavy over Mywl Rhea 
 an' sh weeping soft over the smaller hills, for fear ov what 
 they'd meet outside. There was not one there would kill 
 a hare with his gun, for they knew quare things might 
 happen if they did. Had not Matt Joyce come momin' 
 afther momin' to milk his cows, an' found the milk gone 
 from thim, until one day he saw a hare make off across 
 the fields, an' bein' ragin' he threw a sthone at her an' 
 she fell, but ran on again very slow. 
 
 Matt chased her for miles, to catch her to ate, till he 
 came to a verra wee house lyin' in a holly in the hills 
 that he nivir minded to see before. 
 
 He was tired thin, an' knocked an' wint in. 
 
 “ Bollo Yerib " (God save all here), says he. An' he 
 heard a groan and saw a little ould woman in the comer 
 nursin' her arm that was broke. 
 
 “ God save ye, mother, ye poor craythur ! " says 
 Matt, an' tied it up for her tendther an' kind. 
 
 “ I fell," says she ; “ a rock did it." An' she stared 
 at him all the time. He was searchin' for a sthick to 
 keep the bone straight, when he saw a hareskin in the 
 comer, an' it dabbled with blood. An' the fear ov his 
 life rose up in him. Thin she laffed. 
 
 “ Go, Matt Joyce," says she, “ go back along the hills. 
 An' ye'r cows will give great milk in the momin'," says 
 
THE STORY OF DARBY O'TOOLE 29 
 
 she, “ an' don't look at what doesn't consam ye," says 
 she. 
 
 He sthumbled out, sayin' his prayers, an' a darkness 
 fell an' a great fog and sthorm, that whin he wint home 
 he nivir knew the way agin, but the two black cows 
 gave a pail of milk every day from that on. 
 
 Quare sthories indade, an' bread and drink galore, and 
 now Darby O'Toole, that lived in the little cottage along 
 be the say. He used to be the merryesht of all at thim 
 wakes and go creepin' aft her the min whin they'd lave, 
 and let a bawl at thim, till they leapt and prayed, thinkin ' 
 the fairies was on thim. But since he wint from his own 
 country an' saw a gerril with dusky hair an' a gould band 
 houldin' it, Darby was not the same bye at all. 
 
 He was thinkin', always thinkin' of how he could put 
 a pound together, an' of the people he belonged to who 
 had been killed an' robbed be the O'Shannasseys. 
 
 Times he'd climb the high hills an' sthand lookin' out 
 towards Mayo, as his mother did, shadin' his eyes an' 
 l lookin' up the long wild line of the baches, with the 
 i waves batin' on the sands, an' Achill islands sthanding 
 I out whin the air was verra clear. One day, Honora, 
 his mother, found him there lookin' out. 
 
 “ I think ye’r heart is there too, Darby," says she. 
 
 I “ As mine is — what is not yours, " she says, as they wint 
 down across the mountain together. . . . 
 
 Now there was a gerril of the Tynan's tuk sudden with 
 a cowld ; she had been thin, and coughin' for a year 
 back, an' not to go to the great wake would be an 
 offince. So Darby rowed out in his boat and made up 
 the Killeries towards Leenane till he came to the 
 cottage an' heard the great keenin' within. 
 
 'Twas a whist sthill night in winther, with the moon 
 clear in the sky ; inland 'twas freezin', but her 'twas 
 only soft an' cool, with the say whispering as if'twas 
 summer. The rocks was black jas night where they 
 dropped into the say, with silver on thim whin they cot 
 the light, an' the wathers ye could not see at all in the 
 shadows, but hear thim, washing an' lappin' ; but on 
 
30 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 further they were white an' sthrange as if ye burnt lamps 
 beneath them. There was patches of bent-down threes 
 near Tynan's cottage, an* little beaches to cross, an' 
 streams running down the mountain. 
 
 Darby he did his besht to be himself at the wake, and 
 there was a hurt in his throat whin he looked down at 
 the dead gerril. For her hair was fine and black and 
 soft, and her pale, still face pretty to see. He thought 
 of the Lady Fiona, with the dusky hair hangin' to her 
 knees, or maybe 'twas a puff ov smoke brought wather 
 to his eyes. Mary Tynan was a promised gerril when 
 she was tuk. 
 
 Twas airly whin Darby shlipped away. He med an 
 excuse of a long journey he had to take to Westport or 
 Galway, with the whitestones from the Bens, and bits 
 of marble he had polished bright ; an’ he was walkin' 
 a little inland along the track to his canno, the say was 
 silver bright now, whin he heard the splash of oars rowing 
 soft below him. 
 
 Darby shtopped, watchin', wonderin' who came so 
 late to the wake, an' he saw four min landin' on the little 
 bache below. Four min that nivir spoke a word, but 
 pulled an' lifted somethin' verra heavy from the boat, 
 and came up along the sands. As they got to the thrack, 
 and came out in the shine ov the moon, Darby shivered, 
 for he saw 'twas a coffin they carried. 
 
 They were no min of the place, an' Darby's mind grew 
 unaisy. 
 
 " Who are ye ? " he says, an' sthips out from the 
 shaddy. 
 
 " That's nothin' to ye," says one ov thim, very short 
 and angry. 
 
 " Put down that coffin," says Darby, sthanding big 
 an' sthraight, "for I will see who 'tis, for ye have bad 
 faces on ye, strange min." 
 
 " An' if we do, 'tis for yerself, Darby O'Toole," says 
 one of thim in a quare cowld voice. 
 
 "That will be whin it is me time," says Darby, 
 knowin' no fear. " Now put it down, I tell ye." 
 
THE STORY OF DARBY OTOOLE 31 
 
 He nivir knew what med him lay hands on the little 
 case of gould that he carried over his heart, or the sprig 
 of heather he had tuk from the ould woman's cave, but 
 the four came at him creepin' an' whin he saw their 
 faces they were peaked an' pointed an' greeny-white an’ 
 sthrange. But they sthopped, an' cried, “ Lave him," 
 sudden as they stharted, an' raced off, sthealin' into the 
 hills, so that in a second they were gone. 
 
 Darby tuk a big sthone in his hand. If they were 
 fairy min, the coffin was real. An' he shmashed the 
 wood with a tap or two, an' broke the boards away. 
 Thin he cried out, for lyin' within on a bed of white 
 velvet was a young gerril, with fair hair about her, an' 
 a goulden band set with red and white jools on her head, 
 an' bracelets on her arrums of heavy gould, an' a silver 
 dress about her. 
 
 “ What have we here ? " says Darby, an' thin he saw 
 her breathe, an' knew she was not dead but sleepin', an' 
 he lifted her out. His boat was below ; he carried her 
 to it, an' as they came to land the gerril sat up. 
 
 “ Och. och ! Where am I ? " she cries with a voice 
 the like ov which Darby had never heard. 
 
 “ I found ye in a coffin," says Darby, very gentle. 
 “ Quiet, little one," says he. 
 
 With that she began to cry an' to sob till he got her in 
 to Honora, his mother, an' gave her a dhrink of hot milk 
 am' warrumed her be the fire. 
 
 'Twas a quare, sorrowful sthory she had to tell. She 
 was the Princess Moira, daughter to the king of Ulsther. 
 An' she had a sisther that was dark an' crooked an' hated 
 her. But if Moira was dead the sisther would be Crown 
 Princess. An' there came to Ulsther a great earl to 
 marry the future queen. “ Tall he is an' splendid," said 
 the gerril, blushing. “ An' glad I was to take him. But 
 for I liked him well enough, Maireen, she loved him too, 
 an' one day, laffin', she med him give her a promise. 
 ‘ Ye love Ulsther, ' says she, ‘ and will make it a good 
 king/ 
 
 “ ‘ I will so, ' says Earl Granagh, says he. 
 
32 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 “ 4 Will ye shwear to marry its future queen ? ' savs she. 
 4 Shwear it ? ' 
 
 44 4 I will so/ says he, 4 if I can/ looking at me, and 
 shwore it, laffin, on the cross.” 
 
 Oh, heres a verra terrible sthory, for from that hour 
 Moira saw Maireen about with a quare man of the court 
 that they suspected was in with the fairies. 
 
 44 There came a night,” sobbed Moira, 44 when Maireen 
 came to me, a cup of milk and honey in her hands. I 
 tuk it every night. 
 
 44 4 Drink it, sweet sisther/ says she, and whin I 
 dhrank a great darkness fell on me, and I know no more, 
 save that I'm thinkin' they med a likeness ov me, for 
 as I came deep into the shleep I think I saw them bring 
 it in, a thing ov wax. They were takin' me to Shawn 
 Rhue,” she said, 44 in the mountains. He, they say, is a 
 fairy king, an' I would nivir have been seen again, but 
 shut away in the mountains inside in the rath,” an' she 
 cried a little, being wake an' sick from the inchantmint 
 they put her undther. 
 
 She was a gran' princess, but she slep’ sound that 
 night in the little room at the cottage be the say, an' wi+h 
 momin' light, wasn't she up merry an' gay, in a red skirt 
 of Honora's, an' a shawl about her shouldthers, an' she 
 out to see the ould black cow milked. An' dyin' she was 
 to thry her own hand, but the cow kicked her, an' she 
 laffed verra much. She was merry as the waves dancin' 
 in the sunshine, an' sweet as the honey the wild bees 
 gather from the heather. There was nothin' but her 
 feet troubled her, for she could not walk in the silver 
 shlippers on her, an' Honora's strong brogues hurted 
 her, but she bore thim brave an' gay, an' to see her atin' 
 a salt bit of fish an' a biled pyatee for dinner, ye'd say 
 she nivir had betther. 
 
 No hurry she was in at first to get home. She 
 wandthered off with Darby to see the Connemara bogs 
 and hills. Brown and bleak they were now, but she 
 loved the sight ov thim. Darby tuk her across the hills 
 to the watherfall where the river comes in a great slide 
 
THE STORY OF DARBY O’TOOLE 
 
 33 
 
 of clear brown wather till it breaks into a mass ov torn 
 foam below. He tuk her up be the still pools to where 
 Loch Muck is gathered in betune the hills, deep an’ dark, 
 an’ on to Loch Fee, stretching long and wide and quieter 
 than Loch Muck, bein’ sheltered from the tearin’ wesht 
 winds. But even there, there were waves plashing on all 
 about the brown sthones, an’ the little island an’ over 
 the gravel baches where the fish sphawned. An’ he 
 tould her how in still days in summer ye’d see the 
 saamon an’ the big throut leppin’ in the deeps, an’ the 
 little ones dimplin’ the shallows, an’ how with a line he 
 had cot thim ; sometimes even a great silver saamon ’d 
 take a sprat from anear the shore. 
 
 There was fairies about Loch Fee, he tould her. Little 
 people on the islands an’ on the hills ; an’ in one place 
 the Danes had a fort made, an’ in another rough shelters 
 an’ places for sthores. An’ thin, they wint away back 
 over the hills to where the say came lappin’ in among 
 the sayweeds, cowld an’ soft. An’ the Princess she 
 loved it all. An’ her glass of milk, that if she knew, 
 left Darby none, an’ the hot bread baked in the sthones. 
 Whisht she was an’ white whin she came, but in a week 
 there was roses in her cheeks, an’ the laff of her was clear 
 as the sound ov wathor droppin’ on the sthones. 
 
 An’ often she looked at Darby with his red-brown hair 
 an’ blue eyes, an’ then she’d sigh soft. For he had the 
 soft tongue of Connemara, but he showed the blood in 
 him above it all. 
 
 An’ thin there was talk of her gettin’ home to the 
 king’s palace away in Ulsther, but with wild winds of 
 February bio win’ Darby said they could not travel. 
 For he had no money to buy a horse, an’ the neighbours, 
 seein’ the merry shlip of a gerril in her short skirt an’ her 
 shawl, sure they laffed at her bein’ a princess, and thought 
 twas some foolishness ov Darby’s, he bein’ always 
 mockin’ thim. 
 
 “ But I will take ye home,” says Darby, says he. 
 'for ye are but light,” says he. “ There is a good 
 pony I can borry,” says he, sighin’ thin, for he knew 
 
 B 
 
34 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 the pounds he would pay for it. “ An' I will walk,” 
 says he “ an' guard ye.” 
 
 The morning before she left she was away up the 
 pass, an 1 at the top she st hopped. There to one side was 
 the Killery clear in a pale sun, an \ beyond the big 
 Killery, with the grass worn where the coffins sthud as 
 they landed from the boats, and beyond that Leenane. 
 
 " An' I will nivir see it agin, Darby,” says she, " but 
 the wild land of me own kingdom that knows no softness. 
 I am a princess,” says she, “ that lay in a silken bed and 
 never walked but in the garden, but ... I would be 
 happy here,” says she, ‘ ‘ below in ye'r cabin.” 
 
 She looked wistful at Darby, but Darby's eyes were 
 away to where lay the Mayo sands, an' he scarcely 
 heard her. An' she sighed verra deep. 
 
 The ould pony was ready below, the price ov it paid 
 out of Darby's little bit he had med with marbles an' 
 with diminds. An' a sate med on it for Moira, an' 
 before her wrapped up the dhress she had come in, an' 
 her silver shoes an' goulden crown. An' she clung 
 around Honora sobbin' pitiful. For “ Oh, I will nivir 
 be so happy again,” she cries ; " nivir — nivir.” 
 
 “ But ye are a great princess,” says Honora, cryin' 
 too, an' ye're duty is at home.” 
 
 So they rode away, Darby walkin', his sthaff in his 
 hand, an' Moira in her common gownd ; an' the neigh- 
 bours laffed, wondhering who she was. 
 
 The long, long road 'twould be, an' the heart grew sad 
 in Darby as they turned inland, for thim that is borm 
 be the say grows louesome without its music. 
 
 Long toil there was over the little paths on the moun- 
 tains ; down across the bogs, with the cowld wind an' 
 the rain, an' the sunshine. An' they both lookin' back sad, 
 where the mountains' feet ran into the fiat rich lands, 
 an' the hills that they saw in front were only humps ov 
 airth. 
 
 Darby had not much money, but he paid for all they 
 had. He was not afeared out in the counthrey, where 
 he'd put a bed for Moira in the cabins, but he was in the 
 
THE STORY OF DARBY O’TOOLE 35 
 
 towns, where there was soldiers, an' dhrink and wicked- 
 ness, an’ all eyein' the sphlendid man an’ the butiful 
 gerril. 
 
 Twice he fought min that thrun an eye on Moira, an r 
 the shake he gave thim taught thim sense ; an' once they 
 were follyed an' sot on be robbers, creepin', creepin', with 
 waypons in their hands. An' Darby with only his sthafL 
 But he put Moira behind him, an' he struck the first a 
 blow that broke the wrists on him, an' he cot the second 
 an' just thrun him into the river near by, an' the others 
 screeched “ Giant ! " an' ran. 
 
 An' agin, worst of all, late night came on thin, an' only 
 a gran' castle in sight. There was a cowld rain failin', 
 an' the catchin' damp ov inland med him shiver. So 
 Darby had to knock at the gate. Afeared he was when 
 he saw the red head an' the wicked eye of the chief 
 within, an' the look he thrun on purty Moira. But he 
 purtended nothin', only lay awake all the night, an' 
 found out there was but tin min in the castle, and two 
 he hurted a little whin they tried to boult him into his 
 room. An' in the morning he offered paymint, an' he 
 whispered to Moira that the ould pony was grazin' below, 
 an' to catch it an' ride off, but to go on fasht whin she 
 got outside, an' not come back, no matter what he said. 
 An' thin he cried out that he had losht fifty goulden 
 pound, an' “Sisther," says he, “ ye know where 'tis 
 on the road we came ; ride back," says he, “ an' git it, 
 an' take a couple to help ye." 
 
 It plazed the wicked ould chief well. He towld the 
 min to take the money and bind Moira, while he dealt 
 with Darby, an' he laffed at Darby for a fool all the 
 time. 
 
 So Moira ran out, cryin' she cud find the money, an' 
 up on her pony in a minnit, an' the min ran with their 
 heads down, huntin' for the gould, but she throtted away, 
 on and on. 
 
 Darby schreeched, an' he roared after her so loud he 
 tuk thim all in. Thin sudden an' swift he sthud back 
 and lepped the moat an' ran aft her her, an' cot her a mile 
 
IRISH STEW 
 
 36 
 
 on, so that whin horsemin came afther thim they had 
 hid up the hills an' walked across another way an' got 
 safe away. 
 
 An' often Moira would talk an' talk tellin' Darby ov 
 all her life, an' its grander, with her eyes on the fine 
 brave face ov him, an' a sigh on her lips. An' she'd 
 whisper of Connemara, an' “ If — ye cud go back there a 
 great man, Darby," says she onst. 
 
 Times too, Darby'd look at her an' think how lovely 
 she was, but his heart was firrum with Fiona Geraldine, 
 an' a poor bye had no bizness to look at a princess. 
 
 Thin came a day whin the lasht coin was gone, an' the 
 ould pony tired, an' Darby had to sell the little goulden 
 case he wore over his heart, an' the tears was in his eyes 
 whin he offered it at a great house, and got bread and 
 milk, for he musht take Moira home. 
 
 It was April, with the little primmeroses pale gould 
 on the banks, an' the willow tassels hangin' pearly green, 
 an' the green shoots on the blackthorns, an' blue skies 
 overhead, whin they climbt up a hill — there was great 
 proud hills in the land they'd come to now — an' there, 
 down below them, was the King of Ulsther's castle. 
 
 A big, wide, silver river ran beside it, smooth an' deep. 
 Mountains threw their creshts up tall an' sullen, great 
 woods climbin' their sides, but was all proud an' fine 
 without the shweet wildness ov Connemara. 
 
 There was a sight ov cattle an' horses an' sheep an' 
 goats, an' soldiers gallopin', an' flags flyin', an' the music 
 of harps risin'. 
 
 The two med down into the valley in among the crowds. 
 “ An' what is all this ? " asks Darby ov a man. 
 
 “ 'Tis a weddin'," says the northerner, short an' sharp. 
 “ The future Queen of Ulsther, the Princess Maireen, to 
 the Earl ov Granagh." 
 
 “ He did not wait long," says Moira shlowly, "not 
 long. Oh, we are but jusht in time, " says she ; “ though 
 maybe he'd be punished worse an he wed to Maireen." 
 
 Thin she flung up her head an' she laffed. 
 
 There was a house by with but an ould woman in it. 
 
THE STORY OF DARBY O TOOLE 
 
 37 
 
 and she wint in. In tin minits she was back with the 
 white silken gownd on her, an' her hair all loose an' the 
 gould band holdin' it, but the brown hands of her looked 
 quare agin the white ov her gownd. 
 
 Then “ Come, Darby ! " says she, an' throwin' on her 
 shawl they hurried across to the ould sthone church where 
 a great crowd was gathered, an' the soldiers shoutin' to 
 the crowd, “ Rape back," for the King was cornin'. 
 
 A splindid -loo king man he was, an' a fine young man 
 ridin' be his side, an' behind thim again, ridin' on a white 
 horse, the Princess Maireen ; but she was crooked an* 
 brown, an' ye'd nivir say sisther to Moira. 
 
 “ Back ! " cries the soldiers. “ Back ! " For there 
 was priests and harpists an' strangers come to the 
 weddin'. 
 
 “ Make room," said the Princess Moira, says she. An' 
 they turned, surprised like. 
 
 “ For who ? " they cries, angered an' furious. 
 
 “ For the Princess Moira of Ulsther," said Darby, 
 says he, an' the great soft voice of him rowled over 
 thim like a big breaker on the rocks. Paralysed they 
 was an' shoutin' whin she thrun away the cloak, an' in 
 silk an' silver an' gould with the sun shinin' she med up 
 the aisle. An' the soldiers tried to sthop thim, but 
 Darby he shuk a few, gentle like, so that they sat down 
 gaspin' for an hour. 
 
 “ What is this ? " cried the King, hearin' the commo- 
 tion, an' he looked an' he shuk. 
 
 “ Moira ! "he cries. “ Her I saw dead in her coffin ! '* 
 
 “ 'Tis a witch, " cries the priests, an' they crossed them- 
 selves an' thrun howly wather ; but Moira walked on, 
 her head up an' her face set hard. She bowed low to her 
 father. An' thin she turned to the brown sisther that 
 was shakin' in the silken dhress. 
 
 “ Sisther, was it well done ? " says she, proud and 
 scornful. “ An' ye, me lord ? An' ye marry so soon," 
 she says to the fine young man, the Earl. An' thin they 
 knew 'twas no witch. 
 
 Well, with this an' with that, such a hubbub an' a 
 
IRISH STEW 
 
 38 
 
 bawlin' nivir was. But afther a time they listened to 
 the Princess an' to Darby, an' the weddin' was over an' 
 done with for the day. 
 
 Cryin' bitter and terrible, they led Maireen away to 
 shut her up with howly nuns. An' whin Darby saw the 
 princess agin, he was brave an' splendid in a nobleman's 
 suit, an' she, all in white and silver, was sitting on an 
 oaken throne be her father's side. 
 
 Darby bowed to thim aisy like. 'Twas hot in there, 
 an' he knew he would not like to be a king in a palace. 
 
 “I hear, Darby O'Tcole," says the King, says he, 
 an' then he tould it all out. How Darby had minded 
 his gerril an' clothed an' fed her, an' sphent his money 
 on a pony to bring her safe an' sound, an' nivir a word 
 all the time but as from a brother to a sisther. 
 
 “ An' what shall we give ye, Darby O'Toole ? " says 
 the King, says he. “ Gould," says he, “or a place in 
 our court as a general," says he, “ to lead our soldiers ? " 
 
 The eyes of Darby brightened an' darkened, for first 
 he thought of leadin' min, an' thin ov a cloud of dusky 
 hair an' a gerril waitin' on the sands of Mayo. 
 
 “ I will take what ye give me, King of Ulsther," says 
 lie. " An' take it home to another. But I cannot sthop 
 here," says he. 
 
 With that the Princess Moira's eyes clouded up, but 
 she said nothing. 
 
 But they would not let him go yet. For there was 
 feastin' and dhrinkin' an' a great dance in the hall, an' 
 lalk o v the witchcraft that carried Moira away ; but often 
 whin Darby saw the fine min dhrinkin' till the sinses 
 left thim, he'd only long to be back home with a big 
 bowl ov milk before him, an' the wesht wind blowin' 
 sweet across the say. 
 
 So in time he tuk his leave ; but before he wint, he 
 was sint to see the princess. She was alone in a round 
 room, with hangin's on the wall, and deerskins under 
 her feet, an' she was pale an' proud an' lovely in her 
 silken gownd. An' lookin', Darby wonthered if she 
 was the gerril that milked the cow till she'd kick, an' 
 
THE STORY OF DARBY O TOOLE 39. 
 
 climbed the mountains in thick brogues, an’ ran. 
 laffin' in to ate pyatees an' salt fish. 
 
 There was gran' cakes beside her now, an' glasses of. 
 wine. 
 
 “ Ye are goin', Darby ? ” says she, with a quare smile 
 on her lips. 
 
 “ I am goin', Moira,” says he, callin' her as he had 
 always. 
 
 “ Ye are takin' gould,” says she, “ an' a jool from me 
 father ; but Darby O'Toole,” says she, “ is there — -nothin’" 
 else ye would have ? ” The heart leapt to his throat, 
 for he knew well what she mint thin. 
 
 “ Me dress is white,” says she, “ but me hands ” — 
 she held thim out — “they are brown still from the 
 winds of Connemara,” says she, “ an' maybe me heart 
 kapes memory with thim. Darby O'Toole,” says she, 
 “ ye are a well-born man. Is there nothin' else ? 
 An' she waited. “ Me father laves it to me,” says she.. 
 
 The proud, sweet blue eyes ov her were on him as he 
 sthud tall an' sthraight, no man of his like in all Ireland., 
 An' she was fair an' good, an' a princess. An' he would 
 be King of Ulsther. But the long hair ov her blew out 
 in a breath from the windy, flashin’ soft brown across 
 the sunshine, an' it brought a stronger thought of hair 
 that was as the clouds at night, an' Darby dhrew back. 
 But the eyes was wet in his head, an' he knelt at her 
 feet. 
 
 “ I would not have ye kneel to me, Darby,” says she, 
 thremblin'. 
 
 “ Yes, I musht kneel, Moira,” says he, “ for that ye 
 are so beautiful an' so sweet ; an' I will tell ye now,” 
 says he, “what I should have tould ye before.” So 
 kneelin', he tould her all, an' would not watch her face. 
 
 There was a long silence in the room. 
 
 “Thin, God bless ye, Darby O'Toole,” says she, “ ye 
 an' her ! ” but the voice ov her sounded far away. “ I 
 had dreamt,” says she, “ ov company,” says she. “ An' 
 it is over now. For the Earl of Granagh, ” says she, “ did. 
 not mourn me long ; yet perhaps I will take him yet* 
 
40 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 but never to be king beside me on the throne. Good-bye, 
 Darby 0 'Toole/' says she, an' she pulled a little gould 
 collar from her neck. " For her/' says she ; an' still 
 ye'd say she was speakin' far away. " For her that ye 
 love," says she. 
 
 He tuk the brown hands ov her and kissed thim soft. 
 "For the days of Connemara," says Darby. "An' 
 God bless an' kape ye, Moira ! For if I was not 
 promised " says he, sobbin' a little. 
 
 An' thin he ran away. An' onst he st hopped, for this 
 was a wondtherful thing he was offered ; but then a 
 cloud blew dusk across the blue, an' he walked on. 
 
 Much gould they gave him thin. Five hundthred 
 goulden pounds, an' a fine horse, an' suit of clothes. An' 
 he rode fasht in the evenin' lesht he should sthay for ivir. 
 The ould pony Moira kep' and fed him herself till he died. 
 An' on the way he got his gould case back, an' med on 
 home fasht on his fine horse. But whin he neared to the 
 Killeries he changed his clothes back, an' led in the gran' 
 horse, an' he'd hardly wait to tell Honora his mother, 
 but tuk the canno out an' rowed hard away up and up 
 till he saw the O'Shannasseys' castle in the sunlight. 
 
 An' on the sands stood a gerril in white with dusky 
 hair flowin' about her. 
 
 She cried out whin she saw him there, an' they sat 
 out in a nook ov the rocks while he up an' tould her all. 
 Ye see, he had to bring a thousand pounds before he 
 could get her free. " But wait for another year, Fiona," 
 -says he, "An' is there one ye can trust with this to 
 keep ? " 
 
 "Me Uncle Breffni, that's Bishop of Connaught," 
 says she. " He will kape the gould safe. An' I will say 
 a friend brought it to me," says she. 
 
 " An' tell thim no more." An' maybe the gould she 
 thought would tempt thim not to force on her weddin' 
 with Black Dermod that wanted her castle an' her 
 lands for himself, he bein' the second son. 
 
 Well — Darby, he waited hiding among the rocks till 
 his gerril brought him news. An' a year more ov grace 
 
THE STORY OF DARBY O'TOOLE 
 
 41 
 
 she had before they'd force the weddin' on her, and the 
 five hundthred goulden pounds safe in the monasthry 
 her uncle was head ov. An' they said goodbye, she an' 
 Darby, in the dim ov a summer's night, an' but onst was 
 Fiona quare to him. 'Twas whin he tould her all about 
 the princess. An' she grew jealous like. 
 
 “ A princess," says she, slow like, "An' was she as 
 purty as I am, Darby ? " says she. 
 
 “ She was," says Darby, quiet an' simple. 
 
 " I like ye for sayin' that," says she, and turns away 
 all the same. 
 
 “ But she was not you," says Darby, still quiet an' 
 simple. “ For there was nivir another like you, acushla 
 ma creethur — light of me heart ! " 
 
 Thin she was plazed an' turned to him. 
 
 So Darby wint back to his cottage to try to aim the 
 resht of the money for to free Fiona. An' years afther- 
 wards he heard tell that the Princess of Ulsther was a 
 great queen, but cowld an' hard an' proud, so that the 
 earl she married nivir even sat beside her on the throne, 
 an' that she nivir smiled. 
 
 An' Darby, knowin' why, sighed for her sake. 
 
 B* 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 HOW DARBY O'TOOLE SHOT A SEAL 
 
 “ But who is good enough for the likes ov ye here?” says 
 Darby, simple like, “who here among the neighbours ? ” 
 
 “ I cud name one,” says she, an’ the great green-blue eyes ov 
 hers met his, an' he knew. Oh, there cud be riches for him now, 
 an' the butifulest gerril for a wife, an’ one he knew would love 
 him thrue. 
 
 W HIN Darby O Toole came back from Salruck, 
 havin' left the Lady Fiona st handing on 
 the rocks, in her white gownd and her 
 dusky hair failin' all around her like a 
 cloud, his heart was verra gay an* light in him. 
 
 Five hundthred goulden pounds that'd take a man a 
 lifetime to aim, had tumbled into his hands, an’ if he 
 was sorryful sometimes for purty Princess Moira of 
 Ulsther, that he had left standin' straight an' white in 
 her room in the tower, he was gladsome to think that 
 the daughter of the Geraldines cud wait another year 
 in peace, an' thin he was that full ov hope, he was sartin 
 sure of going back to clap the money down an* release 
 her, an* go to live with her in her own castle in Mayo. 
 
 "Somethin' will happen, light ov me heart," says 
 he. " Twas a blessed day that sint me to you ; an' stheal 
 to the little rock," says he, "this day twelvemonth, 
 to see the canno cornin' in weighted down with gould." 
 
 So she waved her little white hands to him, afraid 
 all the time that some might see, an ' Darby rowed away, 
 down by the long wild baches till he drew his canno up on 
 the pebbles ov the Little Killery. 
 
 But autumn wint on to winther ; the heather in Conne- 
 mara faded rusty, an' the bells wint tumbling off ; an' 
 the sun sot into a wild an' darksome wesht across a mud 
 
THE STORY OF DARBY OTOOLE 43 
 
 grey say. An’ then winther passed to spring with the 
 whisper of growth in the wind, an' little green shoots 
 poking among the brown, an' then primroses cornin’ 
 out pale as little sthars, an’ cowslips gould in the 
 meadows, an’ the brown throut leppin’ in the lakes. 
 
 An’ spring passed into airly summer, with soft sun- 
 shine on the land, an’ the say sparklin’ blue, an the min 
 workin’ hard in the gardens. 
 
 Many, many months since Darby O’Toole aimed the 
 five hundred pounds, an’ but four months to go before 
 he might aim as much more if he would free Fiona 
 Geraldine, an’ scarce but a penny had he gother up. 
 He grew sad as time went on ; often he’d give up work 
 an’ wandther the hills, thinkin’ the little people might 
 favour him, but though he’d see the heather-bind in the 
 dusk as they passed, an’ hear the whisper ov them or 
 the reeds about the lakes, he saw no little min or wimmin. 
 
 An’ hours he wandthered on Mayo sands, looking for 
 ould Mona’s house, she havin’ said she’d not forgit him, 
 but he could see nothing but the white hump ov the 
 sandhills an’ the coarse grass above them, an’ see only 
 his own footmarks where he’d sunk in the silver sand. 
 
 So the heart grew heavy in him, an’ there was sorrow 
 bindin’ his head till the neighbours wondthered what 
 was wrong with Darby, the gay boy that used to be. 
 An’ times he’d climb the hills to sthare away to Mayo, 
 with all the woe in him cryin’ dumb. 
 
 Where cud he ivir aim more money ? Even the 
 marble an’ the dimonds from the hills was hard to git, 
 an’ not aisy to sell ; the toil he made in their little garden 
 left him but enough pyaties to ate ; a boat -load ov silver- 
 scaled fishes was no vally down there, an’ what else was 
 there to do ? Whin the hate ov summer came, the 
 gentle-faced seals ’d come shwimmin’ into the bay, an’ 
 Shan O’Reilly ov the great house inland said he’d give 
 a few shillin’s for some of their brown furry skhins. 
 
 So Darby, idlin’ then, for whin the heart cannot resht 
 he cannot do honest work, said he’d chase an’ spear 
 one. An’ wint off out in his canno, an’ whin one rose 
 
44 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 with its gentle eyes an' queer, gentle face lookin' up at 
 the blue sky, Darby let fly, an' hot the sale on the 
 shouldher, an' saw the blood sphout an' the craythur 
 dive, an' then he was sorrowful, for he thought it looked 
 reproachful at him before he sank with Darby's sphear 
 sthuckin him. 
 
 “ I will not thry for another, even for their brown 
 skhins," says Darby ; “ he threw the eye ov a Christian 
 on me." 
 
 An' he rowed on, thinking maybe he'd find the cray- 
 thur wounded, an' pull out the waypon, but he saw no 
 sign ov ait her. 
 
 But from that hour he cud catch no fish, an' a week 
 afther he rowed far, trollin' the lines, till lookin' up, he 
 saw the sky was black as ink, an' there was muttherin' 
 ov storm, an' the say lyin' glassy an' dim with a quare 
 heave shakin' it. There was no time to make for home 
 — there came a rattle of raindrops leppin' on the sthill 
 say, an' then, with a roar, the wind was at him, hurtlin' 
 up the waves, with white noses curlin' on them, tossin' 
 the light canno where it playsed. Darby rowed, till 
 the great back was bruk on him, an' he could not kape 
 her up to the wind, an' then he fixed a rag of a sail an' 
 he let her fly across the hills ov wather, stheerin' with 
 a paddle. Down, down he'd go on the stheep of the 
 curlin' wather, an' see a great mountain in front, an' then 
 rise up safe on the next. An' so it seemed to him for 
 days, for day was black as night with the whirlin' 
 sthorm, until it went down, the great rollers changed 
 to a froth, an' toss that canno wint, duckin' an' drippin' 
 till his head whirreled, an' then he heard the lap of 
 angry wather among rocks, an' saw a little island, with 
 a bache of yellow sand, sheltered by rocks. Spint 
 though he was, 'twas aisy to get the canno in, an' he 
 pulled her up an' walked up the sand ; there was quare 
 sort of little huts there piled up agin rocks an' mounds, 
 but only smoke in one. To that he wint, an' found a 
 little brown man toastin' fish over a fire, that looked up 
 as Darby came in. He had a big fierce moostache on 
 
THE STORY OF DARBY OTOOLE 
 
 45 
 
 him, an' quare stickin'-out teeth, but kindly, gentle 
 eyes. 
 
 “ God save,” says Darby sthaggerin' in. He was 
 soaked to the skin. 
 
 “ Welcome,” says the man, an' gave him a fish an' a 
 quare sort of dhrink made from biled white sayweed 
 an’ wild honey. Then Darby saw one shoulder was sore 
 with him, a twisht ov sayweed wound round it. 
 
 “ An' are ye hurt an' alone ? ” says Darby, says he, 
 havin' med a bite ov the fish. 
 
 ” Hurt an' alone,” says the little man, eyin' Darby. 
 “ The others are out fishin',” says he. “An' maybe 
 'tis as well,” says he. 
 
 " I do not know this island,” says Darby, says he, 
 “ but I will help ye now that I am here.” 
 
 So Darby gother up the fire, an' tinded the little man's 
 wound, an' ran out to throw his line for fish, an' cot 
 more than he wanted, an' sthayed all that day busy 
 helpin'. 
 
 “ Ye are verra sthrong, Darby O'Toole,'' says the 
 little man, says he, “ but is it fair to use ye'r sthrength 
 on thim waker than ye 'self,” says he ; ” an' thim that 
 does no harrum to any man.” 
 
 “ How's that ? ” says Darby, quick like. 
 
 The evenin' was failin' quick. 
 
 " Ye have a kindly heart,” says the little man, “ I 
 can know that now, an' yit ye spheared a sale (seal) in 
 the bay — a harrumless ould sale that used to look at ye.” 
 
 With that Darby up an' touldhimov how sorrowful 
 he was for that same, an' how he rowed off afther the 
 poor craythur an' made up his mind how that he would 
 nivir hurt another, even for the money. 
 
 “ An' 'tis money I want sorrowful bad,” says Darby, 
 sighin'. 
 
 “ With health an' sthrength, an' the sun, an' the say, 
 an' the mountains, what do ye want with gould ? ” says 
 the little man. 
 
 An' Darby tould him all, simple an' quiet, an 'then sat 
 st harin' in the fire with his heart heavy in him. 
 
46 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 The red was glowin' too sthrong in it, so he rose to 
 put on more sods, whin in the comer he saw a sale's brown 
 skhin an' his own sphear beside it. 
 
 An' he whipt round, his eyes leppin' in his head, an' 
 looks at the ould man's shouldher, an' back to the 
 sphear. 
 
 " Darby O'Toole," says the little man, “ I see ye know 
 somethin' now." 
 
 An' then he tould him how they was harrumless fairy 
 min that wint out fishin' as sales in the say, being able 
 to live undther wather, an' how risin' to look up at 
 Darby, havin' no fear, he had been wounded so bad 
 he cud scarce swhim home. An' how he had been in 
 sorrowful pain ivir since. 
 
 “ We are all ould now," says he, “ an' in time we must 
 stheer away to the hidden islands where min do not come. 
 But 'twas no chanst wind blew ye here, Darby O'Toole, 
 for we mint to kill ye or trap ye, but 'twas chanst that I 
 was alone, an' saw the kindly heart in ye, an' now let 
 ye go ; an' there will be payee between us, for I will tell 
 the resht what ye are." 
 
 So Darby, full ov wondther, shuk the quare little finny 
 hand ov him, but firsht the little man gave Darby a 
 bit ov sale's tushk that he said'd bring him luck from the 
 say. 
 
 " Up from the say ye'r luck will come," says the fairy 
 man, says he. 
 
 An' Darby rowed fasht an' found his way be good 
 fortin', an' came home at lasht with the moon shinin' 
 on the say, on a sthill summer's night. 
 
 Sometimes porpoise came rowlin' up, bio win' an' 
 snufflin', an' sometimes he saw a sale's dark head, but he 
 kep' well away from thim, not bein' sure who they was. 
 
 As he rowed in, the say light dreepin' blue from his 
 oars, as if the moonlight was cot in the wather, was't he 
 surprised to see three gerrils bathin' in the say, long 
 goulden hair flowin' from thim over the ripplin' waves, 
 an' they singin' an' splashin' like childther. 
 
 Thinkin' 'twas some ov the neighbours' gerrils, Darby 
 
THE STORY OF DARBY OTOOLE 
 
 47 
 
 did not like to pull on, as they was outside him, so he 
 pushed the canno up agin a rock, an* held to it be the 
 sayweed, waitin'. An' thin he saw thim lyin' on the 
 sthone a heap of gran' feathers like a white say-bird's, 
 an' pullin' at it, saw 'twas stitched up all together as a 
 suit ov clothes. He grew tired thin, an' gave a big splash 
 with his oar, an' rowed out across the bay, hard, the 
 feathers with him, never turnin' his head, though he 
 heard a great cryin' behind him. But he held on till 
 he backed the canno, an' saw Honora his mother, pale 
 an' weary, waitin' on the rocks. 
 
 “ For 'twas the great storrum, Darby," says she, “ an' 
 I was sore af eared for ye/' 
 
 Darby wint in, sthiff an' tired, an' he threw the 
 feathers careless into a little wudden box at his door, 
 an' ate an' dhrank an' tould Honora ov all he had seen 
 an' heard, till she turned pale agin, thinkin' how the 
 fairy min might have kep' or kilt him. 
 
 Well, next momin', early, he heard a cryin' outside, 
 an' there was a gerril sthandin' covered in a cloud of 
 goulden hair, batherin' at the door. Honora O'Toole 
 let her in an' dressed her. She said she losht her clothes 
 in the say, an' come from far away, shwimmin', but no 
 more would she say, an' verra buteful she was, pale an' 
 sweet, with chains ov pearls about her neck, an' more 
 ov them tyin' her hair that was too long to put up. 
 
 She ate an' dhrank, an' thin out she cum to Darby, 
 who wint to dig, an' held out her hands. 
 
 “ Oh, give me back me feathers, Darby O'Toole," 
 says she, “for I am the king's dather, an' I musht go 
 home. But I cannot till I gets me suit ov feathers," she 
 whisphers, “ but musht sthay as I am, like to a human 
 being." 
 
 “ Arrah ! that ? " says Darby, says he, rubbin' his 
 head with the sphade. “ What ! " says he, “ an' I tuk 
 ye'r dhress off the rock, " says he, “ to sthuff a quilt with. 
 But ye shall go back, little gerril ov the says," says he, 
 an' turned to find the box. 
 
 Often had he heard of the say gerrils, that cud come up 
 
48 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 an' play an' shwim, but musht put on their own dhress 
 to dive back undther the wather. 
 
 But whin he ran to get the box, sorra a box was there. 
 An' thin he rimimbered how he had promist to give a 
 box to Connachar Joyce, that was away to Westport, 
 an' Connachar, seein' the box outside, must have tuk it 
 as he passed in the dawin'. 
 
 So he could not give the gerril her dhress, though she 
 cried crool an' terrible. Human she was, an' musht 
 stay. Who knew where the feathers was thrun now ? 
 
 He tould her gintly they musht only wait, an' at lasht 
 she smiled out through her tears at him. 
 
 The quare thing she was, givin' no account ov herself 
 but the fust one. For ever shwimmin' an' divin' an' callin' 
 Jike a say-bird across the wather, or sittin' lonesome 
 on the rocks lookin' out to say. But, as the days wint on, 
 she grew quieter, an' she'd help with the house, an' thin 
 to bake an' mind, an' sit lookin' at Darby, with the great 
 sthraight figure of him, an' his deep blue eyes. 
 
 “The min of the say is small," says she, one day, 
 “ an' they walks queer an' crooked, an' there is no sun- 
 shine there below," says she ; “ it dhries ye, yet I love 
 it now," says she. 
 
 “An' there was a man below ye cared for, Drishna ? " 
 says Darby. 
 
 “I was promist," says she, shlow like, “an' me 
 weddin' dress, all wove of silk scales, ready. But he 
 was small," says she. 
 
 Yit though she seemed happy, she pined an' dwindled, 
 an' grew thin an' pale an' white, till whin she'd let down 
 her hair, she was like a goulden cloud passin' in the twi- 
 light, so light hadthe gerril grown. 
 
 She made no friends, an' tould the neighbours nothin', 
 an' she would not go to mass, an' people looked quare at 
 her, an' some ov the boys was rude to her, till Darby 
 fought them gentil an' civil, an' they were not out for a 
 week. 
 
 “ An' if another says a wurd to Drishna I will hurt 
 him," says Darby, says he ; so faix, they let her alone. 
 
THE STORY OF DARBY OTOOLE 49 
 
 But findin' her one evenin' down by the say, she was so 
 whisht an' pale that Darby grew afeared. 
 
 “ Is there nothin' I can do, Drishna," says he, ‘‘to 
 help ye ? " 
 
 She turned her eyes on his. Deep blue-green they 
 were, like the wathers in shadow on a sunny day, an' she 
 whispered to him : 
 
 “ I musht go back to the say, Darby," she says, “ or 
 die ; that is our law below. One night ye'll think ye 
 see a moonbeam sthrikin' on the rock, an' 'twill be me 
 passin'. But," she laid her hand on his arrum, an' 
 'twas like pale white fire that ye cud see through, “ if 
 I were to marry a mortal man," says she, “ an' nivir 
 saw me feathers agin, I would forget an' live. An' I 
 would lam to bake, an' mind a house," says she, “ an' 
 be a Christian. For that is the law ov the say, Darby," 
 says she, “ that if we are left on land an' no man marries 
 us, we must melt away as the beams ov the moon," says 
 she, “ that flickers an' is gone." 
 
 The big heart ov Darby melted in him. 
 
 “ Oh, ye shall not, me purty Drishna," says he, “ ye 
 shall not go so." 
 
 “ I was a king's dather down in the goulden sands," 
 says she, “an' drove great fishes harnessed to a carriage 
 med ov mother-ov-pearl. We played below," says she, 
 “an' came up in the night — for the sunshine hurts us — 
 to play above, an' yet I musht go — an' be nothin' at all," 
 says she — “ nothin' at all ! ' she sobbed. 
 
 “ Ah, no " cries Darby again ; “ no, Drishna ov the 
 say. Ye shall not die." 
 
 “ No ? " says she. An' looks at him out ov the great 
 green-blue eyes that was clear as the sthill say, an' shakes 
 the cloud ov her hair about her an' smiles. 
 
 “No," says he, ‘ for now I'll thramp straight into 
 Westport, an' see Connachar, an' maybe git your 
 feathers," says he. “ An' though it's sorry I'll be, little 
 gerril of the say, ye shall git back to ye'r fine prince that's 
 waitin', an' play merry, below, an 'maybe come up some- 
 times on the moonlit nights, ye an' ye'r man. 
 
IRISH STEW 
 
 50 
 
 Drishna drooped her eyes. 
 
 “ He has black hair/' says she, shlow like, “ an' he 
 is small an- cannot walk well. An' 'tis cool an' dim 
 below," says she. “ Och," she wheeled around suddint. 
 “ I could live now among the hills an' the sunshine, with 
 the say batin' near me dour, an' the sweet shmell of the 
 land about me. I cud," says she, verra soft. “ An' 
 I have here," says she, “that'd buy all Connemara." 
 She pulled at the pearls at her throat, great milky beads, 
 palin' an' shinin'. “ An' if ye cannot find me feathers, 
 Darby ? " says she. 
 
 “ But who is good enough for the likes ov ye here ? " 
 says Darby, simple like. “Who here, among the 
 neighbours ? " 
 
 “ I cud name one," says she, an' the great green-blue 
 eyes of hers met his, an' he knew. Oh, there cud be 
 riches for him now, an' the butifulest gerril for a wife, 
 an' one he knew would love him thrue. The rich man 
 he'd be, able to buy the big empty house on the point, 
 an 'see Honora his mother gowned in white again, happy, 
 an' at her aise. 
 
 But there blew up a cloud, dusky grey an' brown, an' 
 it minded him of Fiona's hair, an' he shook his 
 head. 
 
 He tuk the pale hands in his own an' he held them 
 warrum. 
 
 “I will go quick, Drishna," says he; “away this 
 night across bog an' mountain, an' find ye'r feathers, 
 an' ye can go home safe." 
 
 He saw her eyes flash, an' she whipt the little hands 
 from him. 
 
 “ An' if not ? " she whispers. “I'm sure to melt 
 an' fade away," says she, sorrowful like. 
 
 “ An' if not ? " He drew a big breath. I will save 
 ye yet, Drishna," says he, an' turns sthraight, only 
 sthoppin' for his long pole, away to Westport. Over 
 bog an' hill, runnin' an' leppin', takin' a bite here an' a 
 sup there, till he ran in an' found Connachar, workin' 
 with his uncle. 
 
THE STORY OF DARBY OTOOLE 
 
 5i 
 
 “ Name ov Hiven ! ” says Connachar, says he, whin 
 Darby reeled off his questions. “ Wait till I think.” 
 An' Darby's heart lepped, for he cud not let Drishna 
 die, an' if there was no feathers he must marry her an' 
 break his heart. 
 
 “ Arrah, think, Connachar,” says he ; “ there's a lot 
 depends on it,” says he. 
 
 “I minds it now,” says Connachar; “ there was a 
 bundle ov ould feathers in the box, an' it bein' too airly 
 to wake ye, I jusht sthuffed thim same in undther a hole 
 in the thatch above the door. Arrah, Darby, will ye not 
 sthay to ate ? ” 
 
 For, with that, Darby whipped round, an' was off, 
 runnin' over bog an' mountain, till on a fair evenin' he 
 lighted down through the Pass to the Little Killery. He 
 med for the roof an' found the feathers. He called to 
 his mother to ask Drishna. 
 
 “ She is away be the say,” says Honora, “ an' I am 
 afeared, Darby, she is near to death, the poor daft little 
 craythur that does not know where she came from. She 
 is but a little shaddy, now.” 
 
 Darby had never tould what the gerril was, there 
 bein' a dislike to gerrils ov the say. So he ran on quick 
 to the rocks till he saw Drishna sittin' be a pool, starin' 
 into it, an' so white was she, being in a white dhress, 
 she was like a moonbeam gleamin' on the sayweed. An' 
 he was afeared she would make away before he got to 
 her.- 
 
 “ Drishna ! ” he cries, “ Colleen bawn, I am back to 
 ye!" 
 
 She sthood up quick and pantin'. 
 
 “ An' I have ye'r feathers,” said he, holdin' thim same 
 out. 
 
 “ Oh ! ” says she, “ Oh ! ” with a quare little bird's 
 cry. “ This ? ” She took the suit in her hands, an 'when 
 she touched them the colour came to her cheeks. She 
 wound|the goulden hair about her, an' wound the pearls 
 about it, an' her eyes was on Darby. “ An' even now,” 
 she said, “ I need not go. I could live on the land, an' be 
 
52 IRISH STEW 
 
 a good wife,” says she, “ an' bum these, an' forgit the 
 say.” 
 
 " An' if I had not to git them, I wud have married 
 ye,” says Darby gently ; “ but now go back to ye'r 
 own man, little one, for me heart is elsewhere.” 
 
 So sittin' on the rocks, with the tide whisperin' below, 
 he tould her of Fiona away in Mayo. 
 
 “ An' ye would not have let me die,” she says, whin he 
 finished. “ An' even now if I burnt them, ye wud 
 save me,” she said. “ There is a human heart grown in 
 me, Darby,” says she, “ that will hurt for ivir.” 
 
 She sthood up, a quare little twhisted shmile on her 
 mouth. She looked up at the cottage, an' the smoke 
 ov the fire, an' thin she smiled the quare little twhisted 
 shmile agin, an' shuk her head. 
 
 “ Ye'r heart is too kind to take it be cunnin',” she 
 says. “ So that it cannot be yerself . I will go home now, ” 
 says she. “ An' maybe I'll forgit below. An' times I'll 
 come up to look at the sunlight batin' on the heather, 
 where I will never walk agin ; an' the great hills risin'. 
 I will come along, for the sunshine hurts the others' 
 eyes, an' thin I will go down to the cool ov the dim green 
 below. An' I will watch ye, Darby, whin ye are on the 
 say. Ye may see a say-bird in the daylight, or a moon- 
 beam in the night, an' nivir know who is by.” An' 
 Darby said nothin', for the tears was with him. “ But 
 first,” says she, “ I will give ye what will set ye'r gerril 
 free.” 
 
 “ Now turn ye'r head,” says she, ” till ye hear a say- 
 bird call.” 
 
 So Darby did, an' thin he heard a bird cry, an' he 
 turned, an' he thought he saw a gull dive close to him, 
 but he was not sure. There was a murmur in the say 
 below, an' on the rocks he saw a white wool dress an' 
 a string ov pearls on it, the pearls Drishna wore about 
 her throat. 
 
 So Darby stood till the tide came cowld about his feet, 
 an' thin wint back sorrowful, to tell his mother that her 
 own people had come for the little lost Drishna, an' she 
 would grow well now. 
 
THE STORY OF DARBY OTOOLE 
 
 53 
 
 Then he hastened away in his canno till he came in the 
 dent to the rocks outside the baches, where sthood 
 O'Shannassey's carter. He whistled twice, shrill an' 
 sw r eet, till Fiona came runnin' in the dimness, an' med 
 back with the jools, full ov the hope that had never left 
 her. An' did her besht, but though Black Dermod's 
 eyes were lighter, he said 'twas not enough; but he 
 promist to give her another year, for he meant to have 
 money an’ pearls an’ gerril at the ind, an' hoped she 
 might get more. 
 
 That was all ; they would not give her a quittance 
 ov relayse, so at the dead ov even she shlipped down 
 agin’, an' lovin' Darby deeper than ivir, clung to him 
 an' sobbed an' cried. 
 
 “ For I think they mane threachery," she said, “ an' 
 nivir to let me go honest. Bet her to kape your money, 
 Darby, an' have run away. But I had a wish for me own 
 castle an' lands," says she. 
 
 So Darby comfuted her, an' tould her ov the little 
 gerril of the say. 
 
 “ An' ye wud have been right to save her," says 
 Fiona gently. “ Oh yes, Darby, right. But I hate 
 them greeny things," she said next minit, “ that is like 
 dried jelly-fishes on the sands." 
 
 An' Darby thought of Drishna's goulden hair an* 
 great green-blue eyes, but bein' wise he said nothin'. 
 
 “ But save me, save me, Darby ! " cries Fiona agin ; 
 “ lit ye come up an' live here," says she, “ an' thin be 
 ready to run away with me if no help comes. I am 
 afeared to be alone here." 
 
 Darby thought awhile, an' then : 
 
 “ I will," says he, “ I will ; they shall nivir have ye, 
 Fiona ; an' if the worst comes to the worst we will shlip 
 away on the say, an' ye shall be wife to poor Darby 
 O'Toole." 
 
 But his heart misgave him, for how could he give her 
 salt fish an' pyaties, an' see her tind the cows an' bake 
 the bread ? So he sighed verra bitter, as he put out to 
 say. Verra near too, being' cot be some ov the O'Shan- 
 nassey's min that crep’ down afther Fiona. All had 
 
54 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 been watchin' to see who brought her the gould an' jools. 
 He held in the dark to the point ov rocks, but they 
 pulled out the cannos an* were flyin' to folly, whin, 
 shwift an' suddint, a sthorm rose that tuk Darby out, 
 an' blew them in, so that they cud not row on the smother 
 ov spray. An' once as his canno flew on, he thought 
 he saw a pale face above the say, an' a cloud of goulden 
 hair, an' then, lookin' up agin, 'twas only a moonbeam 
 dancin' on the sthill wather, for the say about Darby 
 nivir rose to the quare wind that came. 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 HOW DARBY O’TOOLE WENT TO MAYO 
 
 Fiona put the crown ov gould on Darby’s head, the prize for 
 the besht man at the sports, and — 
 
 “Have a care,” she whispers — “oh, have a care ! ” 
 
 “ A, nbe ready,” he whispers back. 
 
 W HIN Darby O’Toole came back from Mayo, 
 his canno flyin’ with a sthrange current, 
 he was thinkin’, thinkin’ all the time. He 
 was pledged thin to help Fiona Geraldine, 
 dather of his bither enemies, to leave the little cottage 
 and go to her, so that, whativer happened, he would not 
 let her be carried off by Lord Dermod O’Shannassey for 
 the sake of her castle an' her lands. Twice had Darby, 
 poor as he was, been helped to great money, but he could 
 ot thrust for the third time ; and he thought o v the great 
 gatherin’ ov the O’Shannasseys, and Fiona guarded all 
 around, an’ he but one without horse or pony to carry 
 her off with. The sthout heart in him melted and grew 
 heavy, an’ he landed on a wild bache to lie and resht 
 among the heather. There was little flat fishes shwim- 
 ming in with the tide ; he spheared a few, and lit a fire 
 with tindther and sat waiting while the fish roasted. 
 The white sandhills humped before him with the net- 
 work ov shamerogues trailing, yellow dotted, over parts 
 ov thim, and the coarse grass on the tops, but where he 
 lay the heather was all around, deep red and pink and 
 mauve and purple, big bells and little, and honeysuckle 
 trailing to the edge ov the brown little river he was by, 
 it crooning soft to the say, and asphodel sticking up 
 yellow heads an’ blue. Away to his right there was 
 brown bog, spread white with the bog cotton, an* a deep 
 
56 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 lake with great bulrushes pokin' up sthiff brown heads, 
 an' wild ducks flappin' in and out. 
 
 The grip ov it was on Darby's heart. He thought as 
 he rested he cud be so happy in any little house, with the 
 say batin' in front, and the hills frownin', and the heather 
 stretchin' over the wild land. And thin, raisin' his head, 
 he saw he was close to a grey castle, with trees 
 behind it, an' the little brown sthream, windin' from 
 there, an' the say sthraight out fominst it, blue and gould 
 in the sun. 
 
 It was Fiona Geraldine's castle, with nivir a soul in it 
 but two ould soldiers, and all the little houses about it 
 flattened and destryed. There was ridges an' patches 
 where min had worked before the O’Shannasseys druv 
 thim out. 
 
 The sight of it toughened the heart in Darby O'Toole. 
 It was be wrong that the O'Shannasseys kept the gerrii 
 from her own lands, an' it was be right he would win them 
 back. He sat up, an' thin beside him he saw a tuft of 
 white heather, pure as snow among the pink. 
 
 But 'twas so fair he would not pick it, rememberin' 
 the story of how the white heather came to be, from the 
 little fairy bride hiding in it till the Prince found her. 
 
 “ There might be a little one within," says Darby, and 
 got up, thramping away to his canno. An' on his way 
 he passed a bumble bee on its back, that could not get 
 up, its furry legs kickin', and he sthooped and righted it 
 and put it on a rock. An' further sthill in the sandhills 
 he came on an ould woman pickin' driftwood, and he 
 must sthop to help her and tie up the wood, and offer 
 to carry it home for her. 
 
 She led him off through the sandhills to a quare little 
 nesht ov a house. 
 
 “ All that's left here now," she piped at him. “ But 
 whin ye come to live here, Darby O'Toole, 'twill be 
 another sthory." 
 
 “ And how do ye know me name ? " he cries, sthartled. 
 
 “The man on the sandhill will tell ye," says she, 
 laffing. 
 
THE STORY OF DARBY O'TOOLE 57 
 
 He took a quick look and ran to the sandhill ; but 
 whin he turned around it there was no one, and whin 
 he looked back he had losht sight ov the house, and thin 
 he med for the say, and though he was an hour coming 
 Twas but three stheps back. 
 
 So Darby rowed away and thought there was quare 
 people on the shore. 
 
 Whin he got in he up and tould his sthory, and Honora 
 his mother smiled brave and sweet at him. 
 
 “ We will go, Darby,” says she. “ O'Shannassey is 
 blind, and who will know me now ? Unless he heard 
 me spheak. We will go,” says she, brave an' sweet, 
 though the heart was breakin’ in her to go back to where 
 she had losht her man. 
 
 Well, to make a long sthory short, they shut the cottage 
 and packed what they cud on their two ould cows an' a 
 donkey, an’ med off for the long road. Long it was whin 
 the cows could not shwim, and they musht look for 
 fords ; but at lasht they saw the big tower clear before 
 thim, and Honora 0 Toole turned pale as death. 
 
 “ Here we are, two people ov the Joyces,” says she. 
 " And God sind, Darby, me son — oh, God sind that we 
 ever win home agin ! ” 
 
 She had dyed Darby's red-gould hair dark brown, 
 and stained his skhin, and tied a shawl tight about her 
 own face. An' they chose a little rooned cottage that 
 was near to Honora's old home ; an' next day Darby, 
 the heart in him batin', come to the castle door. 
 
 He passed Fiona in the courtyard and gave nivir 
 a sign, but she choked the cry in her throat, seeing him 
 there. For she had begged him to come, an' now she 
 was af eared. Dermod O'Shannassey threw an eye hard 
 on Darby, who said he was a Joyce from the Killeries 
 that quarrelled there an' come to make a new home, and 
 he offered a goulden pound for rint ov the rooned little 
 house. 
 
 “ Would ye sarve as a soldier ? ” says Dermod, sharp 
 like. 
 
 “ I would not,” says Darby, says he, simple and 
 
5§ 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 o 
 
 determined. “ I’d rather dig an' fish,” says he, 
 spheakin' a bit foolish. 
 
 But first — for the terrible ould man ruled all — he must 
 see the blind Earl, and up he wint to the big room. 
 Blind O'Shannassey was now, and twishted and gother 
 up, with a crukked mouth on him, but he sthraited at 
 the sound ov Darby's voice. 
 
 ” And what coloured hair,” says he, “ has this Joyce 
 from Connemara ? ” 
 
 “ Brown, near to black,” says Breffni, an' the Earl 
 was satisfied ; but they tould Darby he must pay four 
 pounds a year — a vera terrible rint ; but what cud he 
 do ? 
 
 So Darby and his mother stharted to build the little 
 cottage up and to toil outside ; but 'twas winther whin 
 they come, and from the first all wint agin them. Fish 
 was hard to catch on the flat sands. They had no sthore 
 for the dark days, the land was poor and sour ; they had 
 to buy pyates from the O'Shannasseys, an' the cows 
 grew terrible ould an' gave little milk. 
 
 Whin the sphring began to warrum the air Darby's 
 heart was lead in him. Shmall hope could he see at all 
 at all of ivir gittin’ another pinny together. The few 
 pounds he had melted away till there was nothing left. 
 All he had was that he could meet Fiona, and that but 
 seldom, for she was watched. But sometimes, in a boat 
 he had med, he'd creep into the shore, be the way to be 
 gotherin' weed or fishing, and have a wurrud with her. 
 And sometimes she'd come to his cottage be the way for a 
 glass ov milk, and thin she and Honora his mother grew 
 to love each other, and to sit talking and hoping, be the 
 bit ov fire, and always talkin' ov Darby. 
 
 Away Darby must take her if no help came. An' 
 Darby said there was but the say, and he feared, for he 
 knew ov the great four-man canno lying be the baches, 
 an' thought of how even his big arrums would tire an’ 
 he rowin' with two wimmin in his clumsy boat. 
 
 An' all the time the O'Shannasseys watched him, he 
 was so big an' sthrong an' powerful, and they were jealous 
 
THE STORY OF DARBY OTOOLE 
 
 59 
 
 of fine min. Well, with this an' with that, whin April 
 was puffin' little white clouds across the blue sky an' 
 throwin' down little warrum showers that she'd dhry 
 up with the sun before they was half began, and all the 
 wurruld wakin', Darby had no pinny left, an' no food an’ 
 no pyates to ate, an' there was nothin' left but to sell 
 one ov the ould black cows. A little milk she was givin', 
 but a sup ; sthill it wint to Honora's heart to part with 
 her. 
 
 " But take her away over night," says she, “ to the 
 fair. For if the O'Shannasseys heard she was to go 
 they'd buy her for nothin'. An' sell her," says Honora, 
 "till we can buy a taste to ate." She looked white 
 an' thin. 
 
 So in a white foggy night Darby med away. There 
 had been great rain, but 'twas sthopped, an' in the still- 
 ness every little sthream on the mountains was flowin', 
 whisperin' an' plashin' in the half dark. Big mishts 
 rowled above, and there was a quiet so great ye could near 
 hear the growin' heather shake, an' the whisper of the 
 reeds was like wather hissin' off hot iron. Walkin' on, 
 dhrivin' poor ould Acushla, Darby came to a pass betune 
 two hills with a little lake leppin' behind him, and a 
 little river whisperin' into it, an' a big lake in front, an' 
 all round the back of the wathers from the hills, failin', 
 failin', in the sthillness. 
 
 Twas a lonesome place entirely ; but suddint like, 
 as Darby looked from side to side, thinkin' the little 
 people must be out in such a night, he saw a little man 
 come where a second before there had been no one, as if 
 from behind a great black rock. 
 
 The dawn was rising now to make the wurruld light. 
 
 " And where are ye going to ? " says he to Darby. 
 
 Darby up and tould him, they walkin' on together be 
 the shores ov the big lake, and the black cow crawlin' in 
 front. 
 
 Thin the little man sthopped. 
 
 " Me mother," says he, " is ill an' wake, an' here in the 
 mountains there is not one dhrop of fresh milk. An' 
 
6o 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 cud ye sell me the cow for her an* take what I can give, 
 the milk would cure her,” says he. 
 
 The big heart ov Darby grew soft within him. But 
 he thought of Honora his mother hungry at home, and 
 he sighed. 
 
 ” But maybe ye loves her as I love mine,” says Darby, 
 spheakin' from his thoughts. “ An' a little will kape us. 
 Take the cow, little man, and God save yer mother.” 
 
 With that the little man gave a kind of skhip, till 
 ye'd hardly see him at all. 
 
 “ Lave saying ye'r prayers, Darby,” says he, very 
 ^our, “ till 'tis Sunday. There's little people in the 
 mountain that has no use for thim same,” says he, re- 
 coverin' himself. “ But come, dhrive on the cow for 
 me. 
 
 Well, with this an' with that, they wint up an' down 
 the hills, an' be bogs an' be rivers, till they came to a 
 little house built up agin high rocks, and high rocks 
 around it. 
 
 “ I will dhrive in the cow,” says the little man, " to 
 the baun ; and wait on me here, Darby, for me mother 
 musht not be woke.” He disappeared with ould 
 Acushla behind the rocks, an' Darby heard a nisin' from 
 the cottage that was like a thousand little voices and little 
 laffs that tinkled, but he thought 'twas the failin' ov the 
 sthreams from the hills. And sometimes he'd rub his 
 eyes, for the cottage would seem to be rock and some- 
 times a cottage agin. Thin out came the little man. 
 
 ” Darby O'Toole,” says he, " here is the price ov ye'r 
 
 DOW.” 
 
 The heart groaned in Darby, for what did he git but a 
 common little bottle, green an' sthrong an' heavy. 
 An' he sthared, sthammerin'. 
 
 “ Darby O'Toole,” says the little man, “ me mother 
 is dyin' for milk. Are ye not satisfied ? ” 
 
 “ An' God knows I wud be,” says Darby ; “ but, little 
 man, me own mother is dying for food.” Thin he threw 
 up the fine face ov him. ** Kape the cow, little man,” 
 says he, “ and I will hasten back for Mavourneen, the 
 
THE STORY OF DARBY O’TOOLE 
 
 61 
 
 other one/’ says he, “an’ I may not be too late for the 
 fair yet. An’ may ye’r mother live, little man, is me 
 wish.” 
 
 “ Arrah, wait,” says the little man, lafhng out a quare 
 little laff that all the hills echoed. “ Wait,” says he, 
 “ there’s somethin’ inside the bottle, Darby,” says he : 
 “ take it home an’ put it down and say, ' Bottle, do ye’r 
 duty ! ’ an’ see thin,” says he, “ what’s within.” 
 
 “ Them’s childther’s tales,” says Darby. 
 
 “ And is not childther wiser than grown min ? ” says 
 the little man, smiling. “ Darby, the soft heart in ye 
 has not served ye ill. There was a bee on the sands, 
 Darby, that could not git up. There was a bit of white 
 heather ye sphared, and maybe the little people were 
 about ye. There was an ould woman ye helped twice, 
 and maybe she might dance at ye’r wedding, Darby 
 O'Toole. Now turrn around,” says he, “and see if 
 ye know the way home.” 
 
 Faix, Darby turrned, and whin he turrned back 
 there was no house, only the big rocks, with ferns growin’ 
 by them, and the dawn sthealin’ up across the hills, an’ 
 nothing but the lap an’ whisper of the sthreams, an’ the 
 whiff of the cowld little wind that comes keening for the 
 dead night. 
 
 “ Vo, Vo,” says Darby, stharting quick, “ but this is 
 quare,” says he, an’ he ran fasht till be luck he found 
 the lakes and away with him, leppin’ dykes and rivers 
 home. 
 
 There was Honora his mother out with Mavoumeen, 
 that had a tiny sup ov milk too. An’ he saw the white, 
 thin face of her, so that the tears came sthingin’ to his 
 eyes. For he had brought her nothin’. 
 
 “ Ah ! Ye sowld her on the way, Darby,” says she, 
 glad like, “ an’ now we can git a bit to ate, a few pyates 
 from thim robbers,” says she, “ an’ thin ye can git to 
 the town. Oh, I’m glad ! ” says she. But whin Darby 
 tould her his sthory, she turruned her head away. “Ye 
 were right to save a dyin’ woman,” says she, thrying 
 not to cry, for she was hungry, “ but, arrah, Darby, 
 
62 IRISH STEW 
 
 God sind ye found no poteen be the way with the sthory 
 ye have.” 
 
 There was no brukusht thin but a handful of cowld 
 pyates and a little sup ov milk. Darby laid his bottle 
 down. 
 
 “ We'll see,” he says. “ Bottle, do ye’r duty,” says 
 he, thrying to make a joke. 
 
 An', murther ! before ye cud clap an eyelid there was 
 white bread on the table, an’ milk an' bacon an' hot 
 pyates an' eggs, an' a big jug ov milk, an' all in silver 
 dishes. 
 
 First, they were afeared, and thin they tasted, an' the 
 hunger wint out of their faces, an' they laffed with joy. 
 But whin they'd finished Honora tuk up the dishes. 
 
 “ We'll pay the rint with these next month,” says she. 
 " We'li be due thin, and scant marcy we'd git.” 
 
 There was no more hunger in Darby's house. Hot 
 beef an' bacon an' bread an' all they'd want three times 
 a day ; an' once Fiona came, an' for her there was honey 
 cakes, an' a gran' pie, an' sugar sweets an' pasthry. 
 An' all was well till Honora wint to the castle to pay 
 the rint, an' Breffni met her at the door. 
 
 ” If ye have not ye'r rint,” said he, " I will take that 
 bye for me soldier, to pay it.” 
 
 Whin he saw the gran' dishes that was worth three 
 times his rint, the black face ov his changed. An' he axed 
 a dozen questions, wondthering where they came from, 
 an' he had to take thiin in paymint. Honora said nothin', 
 but Darby talked to a neighbour, and thin a man was 
 sint to spy, an' all came out. So, but a little later whin 
 Darby was sitting down to a good meal, Breffni himself 
 walked in and Dermod with him, an' the bottle they 
 would have. 
 
 “ But becos ye'll have no wurrd agin us,” says Breffni, 
 “ here is five goulden pounds. The O'Shannasseys 
 is no robbers,” says he. 
 
 Twas no use that Darby sthud up and talked sthraight 
 to thim ; there was soldiers outside, and they tould 
 him, cowld an' plain, if he kept the bottle he an' his 
 
THE STORY OF DARBY O'TOOLE 63 
 
 mother would hang on the minnit. So home the 
 O'Shannasseys wint with Darby's magic bottle, and, 
 begonnes ! it brought a feast for thim all — winnerful 
 breads an' pies an' swates, an' always just enough for 
 the complemint of people there. 'Twas the talk of the 
 countryside ; but Darby sat silent at home, black with 
 sorrow. 
 
 For, trusting to the bottle, he had neither wurked nor 
 dug, an' there was nothin' to ate, and nothin' left but 
 poor Mavoumeen. The little calf ov her died on thim. 
 An' all the time weeks was passing swift. An' already 
 the wedding ov Fiona was being prepared for ; the castle 
 was filling up, an' the O'Shannasseys rode robbin' for 
 cattle and sheep, and brought back poor screaming 
 prisoners tied on the spare horses, and Fiona came 
 cryin' to the rocks, askin' Darby cud he not save her. 
 They would but kill her if she refused to marry Dermod, 
 that she knew. 
 
 " Let us go away in the boat, Darby," says she, shaking 
 the great cloud ov her dusky hair, "and drown in the 
 deep say, for I cannot say the words with Dermod 
 O'Shannassey, that's a robber and a vilyin." 
 
 So Darby wanted money sore, to hire a boat to take 
 away his mother first, an' there was only the black cow 
 to sell. So on another night he took the road, an' whin 
 he came to the same lonesome place, who shud meet him 
 but the same little man. 
 
 “ Well ? " says he to Darby. 
 
 “ No, but ill," says Darby, very rueful in himself. 
 “ Is ye'r mother well, little man ? " says he, afeared his 
 second cow might be shwept. 
 
 “ She is not," says the little man, “ and milk she musht 
 have," says he ; “ so I'll have ye'r cow," says he, 
 “ whin I hear ye'r sthory." 
 
 Darby up and tould him all that happened, and the 
 little man nodded his head as if he knew before. 
 
 “ Now, Darby," says he, " I have need ov ye'r cow, 
 but I have another bottle," says he, “ an' whin ye take 
 it, sphread the shtory," says he, “ that where the first 
 
6 4 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 brought silver this brings gould and diminds ; and this 
 one,” says he, " will only obey ye'r own voice. So I am 
 doing great things for ye, Darby,” says he, “ and whin 
 ye'r done with what's in it, say ‘ Back to ye 'r bottle ! * ” 
 
 says he. 
 
 “ But I do not understhand,” says Darby, shaking his 
 head, for 'twas money he wanted. 
 
 “ But ye will,” says the little man, whipping away 
 the cow so quick that before he cud clap an eyelid Darby 
 was alone in the road, a bottle in his hand, an' no help 
 for it. 
 
 He ran back quick as he cud, and tore into Honora 
 his mother cryin' they'd hunger no more. An' with 
 that he claps down the fairy bottle and calls out, an' 
 next minnit he was fighting little min that bate him 
 sound an' honest till the breath was from him, and 
 no chanst he had agin the two with their sthick. 
 
 “ Into ye'r bottle,” says Darby at lasht, “ into ye'r 
 bottle ! ” And there was the bottle quiet and innocent 
 on the table. Darby shuk himself twice. Honora 
 his mother had hid in the little room off the kitchen whin 
 the bating began, an' she peeped out, and thin he gave 
 a big laff that near knocked the thatch off the little house. 
 “ Mother ! ” says he, “ mother ! we have thim now ! ” 
 says he. 
 
 He sot himself down beside her with the blue eyes ov 
 him spharkling, and whispered and whispered, until 
 she laffed too, a little, but not so much, for she was wake 
 and thin. 
 
 But going out into the garden, what shud she find but 
 a heap of pyates in it, and two loaves of bread, and a 
 little bag of gould. An' she came runnin' in to say all 
 was well with them, they could ate and live. So she 
 walked off that evenin' an', knowin' wimmin, she 
 tould one for a secret how they had another magic bottle 
 now. An’ go she did that night, with a heavy heart ov 
 her, bein' afeared for Darby her son. 
 
 And the nextht day he came swaggerin' be the say, 
 laffing at O'Shannassey's fishermin. 
 
THE STORY OF DARBY OTOOLE 65 
 
 11 Fish ! ” says he. “ 'Tis hins an' phisants I’m atin' 
 now,” says he, “ in goulden dishes.” 
 
 And he tould thim his lie. 
 
 Well, ov course, in two days Breffni and Dermod had 
 it, an’ they musht have this bottle too. So down they 
 come to Darby's house, black and splindid, and tould 
 him he musht give it up. Darby fought and he roared, 
 and he threw a few min out so gintle they lay there for a 
 day ; but the O'Shannassey pikes were at his throat, 
 and he give his bottle at the lasht. 
 
 “ But 'twill only wurk for me” says he, afeared they'd 
 kill him. “ Mind that, I'm telling the thruth.” 
 
 An' all the time the weddin' guests were cornin', and 
 Fiona she sat weeping in her little room in the tower, 
 seein' no help for her at all at all. Well, to make a long 
 sthory short, home they tuk the bottle, thim two robbers, 
 and called all their guests and laid it on the table, but 
 the bottle nivir sthirred. And they knew 'twas true 
 for Darby, an' they sint for him. He came quiet and 
 aisy, and he stud up betore thim all. 
 
 “ Will ye have a great gotherin' the morrow's night ? ” 
 says he ; “ and if ye give me back me other little bottle, 
 Dermod O'Shannassey, I will sphake to this one, that's 
 worth three ov it, and thin I'll show ye the ways ov it, 
 Breffni O'Shannassey,” says he. 
 
 Sure they promised him, lafhng in their throats, for 
 they mint to kill Darby whin 'twas over and have both 
 bottles, and he, bein' no fool, he knew it well from the 
 look ov thim. 
 
 They kep' him there, an' first there was spoorts for 
 the weddin' — runnin' an' wrestin' an' throwin' weights. 
 An' Darby jyned in. But with the first race he came 
 home alone ; the race was a mile or two. 
 
 0 An’ these are lazy min of yers, O'Shannassey," says 
 he, “ that sot down to light pipes in a race.” 
 
 An' he tuk the prize before, toilin' and pantin' an' 
 gruntin', O'Shannassey's min came in, they having 
 bate all the sthrangers. 
 
 “ Ugh ! ” says O'Shannassey says he, and was near 
 
 c 
 
66 IRISH STEW 
 
 to bate thim. “ Why did ye sit down/' roars he, " ye 
 vilyins ? ” 
 
 " Sit down ? ” says one. “ God help us, an' we all 
 thrying to win, thinkin’ Darby O’Toole had run away ! ” 
 
 An’ thin they jumped. An’ whin they were done 
 Darby jumped, an’ looked back at the mark ov the others. 
 
 “ Would ye tell ye’r min, Breffni O’Shannassey,” says 
 he, “ not to be making little marks just hopping, for 
 'tis not worth while to be lepping agin thim if they will 
 not lep,” says he. 
 
 So the O’Shannasseys was shamed agin, and Dermod 
 that could jump the besht in all Ireland sthud up. 
 
 " Now I will jump agin ye,” says he, for all the 
 strangers were laffing. 
 
 So Darby picked up his pole. 
 
 “ That is good,” says he, “ but let us have something 
 to lep,” says he, and he wint out the gate to where the 
 river ran deep betune high banks full thirty feet acrosst. 
 “ Here,” says he, and skhimmed over. 
 
 But Dermod lepped three foot short, and crawled out 
 drowned and dreepin’, and all the chiefs an’ the ladies 
 were chokin’ smotherin’ their laffter, for Darby lepped 
 back and sthared. 
 
 “ And ye call that a lep,” says Darby, and goes to 
 where the river ran wider sthill, and he tuk his pole and 
 med over, and no one could even thry, that could not use 
 the pole. 
 
 So, shamed and black, the two O’Shannasseys wint 
 back to the courtyard, an’ the ould man sittin’ in his 
 great chair throwin’ hard words at thim. 
 
 But scarcely had Darby lepped the river with the pole 
 whin he thought what a fool he was, for that long ago he 
 had run away from thim that same way. An’ more foolish 
 sthill he felt whin the ould Earl nodded the twisthed 
 head ov him and muthers and grumbles in his beard. 
 
 “ A great man with a pole,” says he, with a soft voice. 
 " There was one long ago,” says he, “ but his hair was 
 red, chestnut red,” an’ he nodded with the lines growing 
 deep in his face. 
 
THE STORY OF DARBY OTOOLE 67 
 
 All the time Fiona watched and watched, the pale 
 pink cornin' an' goin' in her cheeks, an' her hands pullin' 
 at her cloud ov hair. For she was afeared an' proud an” 
 glad an' sorryful all together, an' even with the weddin' 
 so near, somehow she hoped Darby had some plan, for if 
 not she mint to shlip down to the say, and go into it where 
 'tis deep and cool be the rocks rather than be wife to 
 Dermod. 
 
 With that the wrestling began ; the O'Shannassey’s 
 min bate all the sthrange soldiers agin, but whin they 
 were boasting ov victhry one came out to meet Darby. 
 ’An' the soldiers they spun an' twisted an' fought. And 
 whin 'twas Darby's turn, he just cot the man gintle, as 
 he said, and put him clane over his shoulders on to the 
 turf sthack, so that he'd fall soft. 
 
 “ I'm ready now for the next," says he, “ an' that one'll 
 resht a bit there." 
 
 A great laff wint up from the company thin, for the 
 next man, poked out with a pike behind him, came 
 shakin’ and fair afeared, and would not close in grips but 
 dancin' round. But Darby put out one hand. 
 
 “ Little man," says he, “ there is no music for this 
 jig," says he, and he cot him up and put him across on 
 to the turf sthack too. 
 
 The third man to come was that man that he had put 
 sittin' there before, and he came up sthraight and 
 determined. 
 
 0 There was one did that to me before," says he out 
 loud — “ a man from Connemara " ; and so he too was 
 cot, and the three lay there dazed like, and all the fine 
 people swayin' an' chokin', an' the O'Shannasseys 
 biting their lips with the shame. 
 
 Thin out sthud Breffni, he bein' a fine man. 
 
 “ Wrestle with me," says he, and came on sullen as 
 a bull. 
 
 But as he was cornin' Darby cot the glint of stheel in 
 his hand, and knew that Breffni mint to give him a quick 
 cut across the hands that'd paralyse him. 
 
 So he sthud verra quiet, but whin Breffni drew near 
 
68 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 he med a suddint lep and cot him tight an' squeezed him 
 till he cud not use the knife. An' thin he held him back 
 arrum’s length. 
 
 “ Breffni O’Shannassey,” says Darby, " ’twas not fit 
 ye should jyne ye’r own servin’ min on the turf sthack, 
 so will ye own yerself bate ? ” says he. 
 
 " No,” says Breffni, struggling hard. 
 
 “ Thin,” says Darby, and lifts him, big man as he was, 
 and thrun him gintle to his father’s feet. 
 
 An’ all the soldiers, afeared they’d be druv to fight, 
 burst out, “ Give him the prize, the prize ! ” And 
 Breffni sthruggled up and tried to laff, with the black 
 rage shwelling within him. 
 
 But the ould Earl whispers : 
 
 “ Breffni,” says he, “ we will kill this man to-morry. 
 And we will kill him shlow,” says he, dhrawing a long 
 breath. 
 
 Fiona put the crown ov gould on Darby’s head, the 
 prize for the besht man at the sports, and — 
 
 “ Have a care,” she whispers — “ oh, have a care ! ” 
 
 “ An' be ready,” he whispers back, and aloud he says : 
 “Thank ye, Lady Fiona.” 
 
 Thin Darby sthrolled down to the say, O’Shannassey’s 
 min follyin’ close ; but whin he stud on the rocks where 
 his little canno was hid, they thought he was only 
 watchin’ the say. Darby sighed whin he looked at it, 
 and thin at the great four-man cannos on the baches. 
 
 Thin he turned around and wint back to find the 
 company round the long tables, but nothing at all on 
 thim but his two bottles. At the head ov the table was 
 the ould Earl, smilin’ wicked like, for the wicked ould 
 wits in him suspected Darby, an’ he mint to kill him 
 crool. And beside him Fiona, the bride, all in silvery 
 white, and at the other side Dermod, all in splindid 
 armour with gould and jools on him. Fiona wore the 
 say gerril’s pearls about her neck. And as Darby passed 
 in he saw soldiers houldin’ a great nit, and knew ’twas 
 to catch him with. 
 
 The eyes of Dermod and Breffni was sparkling with 
 
THE STORY OF DARBY OTOOLE 69 
 
 the greed ; they could nivir have enough riches, and they 
 waited for the magic. 
 
 “ The bottle is twice bigger than the other," says 
 Dermod, says he. “ Tljiere musht be gran' things 
 within." 
 
 “ I do not like ye'r fairies/' says the Earl, says he. 
 “ And whin ye have the wurd learnt, Dermod and Breffni, 
 ye will take this great man that has shamed us, an' I 
 will listhen to him dyin'," says he. 
 
 And Fiona groaned. 
 
 Thin came Darby up the room, sthraight and tall as 
 a young tree, over the clane rushes on the floor, and 
 lookin' round at the fine hangin's on the sthone 
 walls. 
 
 And all behind the guests stud armed min, for no one 
 trusted another in those days. 
 
 “ Now, man ov the Joyces," says Dermod, signing 
 to the min to lay the wine-cups. “ Now. Or if ye 
 have fooled us," says he, and touched his waypons. 
 
 0 Are ye all ready ? " says Darby. “ And ye will give 
 me own bottle back, Dermod O'Shannassey ? That 
 is a promise." He came up close to the head ov the 
 table an' drew a long breath, for maybe the fairies might 
 fail him, and death might be near. Thin, “ Bottle, do 
 ye'r duty ! " he shouts out. 
 
 With that — no gould, no diminds, but ye could not see 
 the place for whirling sthicks. The company wint 
 roaring round the room, Dermod and Breffni rose 
 howlin', and the ould Earl roared, an' the soldiers cursed, 
 and such murther nivir was. 
 
 The two O Shannasseys med at Darby to kill him, 
 but they were bate away, and hurled around the table, 
 an' Darby cot Fiona's hands. 
 
 “ Oh, go ! " says she. “ Go, Darby ! For they know 
 ye, an' they will kill ye crool. Go and leave me now," 
 says she, “ and Twill die in the say alone." 
 
 “ Arrah, nivir ! " says Darby, says he. “ No one will 
 notice ye now. Run to the canno." 
 
 So Fiona ran, but as she wint she sthopped by her 
 
70 IRISH STEW 
 
 uncle the Archbishop who had her gould, and axed it 
 ov him. 
 
 “ Oh, take it,” says he, being moirthered with batin'. 
 “ Take it, and let me be.” 
 
 An’ he gave the bag into her hand, and thin the tairies 
 bate him no more. So he knelt an' prayed an' rubbed his 
 bruises. 
 
 And as Darby turned he saw the ould Earl give a lep, 
 and the wicked face ov him twisthed and he fell back 
 dead. 
 
 “ Oh, sthop it ; we know ye now ! ” roars Dermod. 
 “ Sthop this magic, or well kill ye ! Me father is dead.” 
 
 “ And if ye do,” says Darby, “ yell be bate for all 
 lime. But if I do sthop it,” says he, high above the 
 bawlin', “ will ye let me go,” says he, “ with me bottles, 
 an' give me a sthart in me boat to get away ? ” 
 
 Black Dermod laffed, knowing the min he had to folly 
 Darby. 
 
 “ Yes,” says he, “ but sthop it. I give ye me word,” 
 says he. 
 
 So Darby got to the door. And, “ Into ye'r bottle ! ” 
 says he, and then he med way through the soldiers, just 
 touchin' thim that thried to sthop him, for already the 
 O'Shannasseys was shoutin' for his blood. He ran 
 hard to the bache, and half-way there he overtook Fiona, 
 and he cot her up and lepped to the boat and shoved off 
 till the canno cut through the wather. And agin waves 
 rose bating the bache, while Darby flew through the calm 
 wather with a current dhrawing him on. 
 
 Whin they were gone three mile there was no sign of 
 cannos on the say, an' he left the oars and tuk Fiona and 
 kissed her. 
 
 “ Me wife,” says he. “ Me wife soon to be. Even 
 in a little cottage,” says he. 
 
 “ Not so,” says she, verra proud, “ but in me own 
 castle,” says she. “ And see, I have all the gould and 
 the pearls here. So to the castle, Darby,” says she. 
 ** Pull hard, for they will folly.” 
 
 He pulled, with the ocean light dreeping from the oars. 
 
THE STORY OF DARBY O'TOOLE 
 
 7 * 
 
 and once he thought he saw a pale face look from the 
 say, an’ thin 'twas but a moonbame glancin' on the 
 wathers. The first bottle brought thim bread and milk 
 to ate, so they were not hungry whin they reached the 
 sands and med up to the castle. A sour ould man 
 answered thim. 
 
 “ I am Fiona Geraldine," says Fiona, “ come to me 
 own. Git min," says she, “ and a priest," says she, 
 “ to marry me to this fine gintleman," and she wint in 
 proud and splindid. 
 
 The ould man grumbled till Darby gave him a taste 
 of a shake, and thin he prayed on his knees. So Fiona 
 and Darby was married, in the light of the mornin’ ; 
 but they were scarce man an' wife, whin they heard the 
 chinkin' ov bits and thrample of horses, and there were 
 the two O'Shannasseys and five hunthred min, grim 
 around the castle wall. Darby sphoke to thim from the 
 windy. 
 
 “ Come down," says Dermod, says he, “ ye vilyin, 
 and we will kill ye. But the Lady Fiona," says he, 
 “ we will take back gintle and quiet, only she shall wait 
 to see ye hang — be ye'r heels, Darby O'Toole." 
 
 Thin came Fiona to the walls, all in her bridal gownd 
 an' the gould on her head. 
 
 “ An' kill me," she says, “ for I will die, but nivir 
 be wife to ye, Dermod Dhoe." 
 
 “'We will see to that," says he. “ Ye that is helped 
 be magic. We will see to that," says he. And thin he 
 cried out, for Darby came beside her, an' he had washed 
 the brown from his hair, and they saw it was ripe red, 
 and knew who he was. 
 
 " Take the castle ! " cries Breffni. “ Bate down the 
 gate ! That's the vilyin ov long ago." 
 
 They came tearing at the walls, a cloud of fierst faces, 
 with the shine of cowld stheel, and settin' the great rams 
 to break in the door that was crazy with age. 
 
 And Darby looked down sorrowful and hopeless . Help 
 he had none. Alone he might have lepped out at the 
 back and gone away, but with Fiona he cud not. 
 
72 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 “ Darby,” says she, “ ye are verra sthrong,” says she, 
 ° Will ye hit me onst with the sthaff in ye'r hand, that I 
 may not be tuk be Dermod O'Shannassey, or see ye die 
 shlow ? ” 
 
 He held the little hands ov her, an' he promised, and 
 so they sthud together lookin' out across the wild stretch 
 ov the goulden sands, with the say crooning up over it, 
 and the humps of the white sandhills, an' the hills risin' 
 high behind, and the little brown sthreams runnin' 
 down among the rocks. 
 
 Bather and crash below, and thin a great shout, for 
 there was O'Shannassey 's own ould man that they'd 
 forgotten pulling hard to let down the dhrawbridge. 
 
 “ It is the ind,” says Darby, says he, “ but before it 
 comes for me that man must die.” 
 
 “ It is not quite the ind yet,” says a voice, and, wheel- 
 ing, Darby saw the little man he had sould the 
 cows to. 
 
 “ I came in be the back way to wish ye joy,” says he. 
 “ An' I think I have a few friends of mine here that might 
 help,” says he. 
 
 With that he whispers to the bottle they had forgotten, 
 and as the bridge lifted, out poured a sight ov quare bint 
 little min, with clubs in their hands. 
 
 And the ould felly that opened the gate he was 
 punished, for he was bate by thim inside for being so 
 treacherous and sthabbed be thim outside for a thraitor ; 
 so he will not throuble the sthory agin. So before ye 
 could clap ye'r eyelids every O’Shannassey soldier was 
 off his horse, bound and helpless, and the two O’Shan- 
 nasseys thimselves, with their hands tied behind thim, 
 were walked up to Darby and Fiona. 
 
 “ And who will hang from the castle walls now,” says 
 Darby, “ ye two vilyins ? ” 
 
 “ Ye that are in league with the fairies,” cries Breffni. 
 “ 'Twas no mortal min we fought below.” 
 
 There was tears in his eyes from the rage. 
 
 The little bint min they sfhud quiet an' silent waiting 
 for orthers, ropes in their hands. And Fiona's eyes 
 
THE STORY OF DARBY OTOOLE 
 
 73 
 
 were sunshine in her head, and she cried for joy as she had 
 not ior fear. 
 
 “ Breffni and Dermod O'Shannassey," says Darby, 
 says he, eyein' thim, “ I was married to-day, an " — he 
 looked at the rope — “ an' I will not sthain me weddin' 
 day with blood/' says he. “ So go back to ye'r own 
 place," says he, “ and lave me wife hers. But if ye do 
 not rule bether there, or if ye burrn a poor man's house, 
 or rob or murther, I have frinds," says he, “ that will tell 
 me all, an' I will soon be with ye, Earl ov O'Shannassey. 
 An' ye will lave me fifty min," says he, “ to sarve me. 
 And sind me a hundthred head of cattle and ov sheep, 
 an' lave me fifty horses, and ye can go. To-morry ye 
 cannot ," says Darby. 
 
 So Breffni, being wise, wud not listhen to Black 
 Dermod's ravin's, but saved his life, and rode away to 
 bury his father. And whin he got back more punish- 
 mint fell on him, for all the sthrange chiefs and lords, 
 sore with batin', had tuk his castle for the insult he had 
 put on thim, an' it tuk near all his money to buy thim 
 out. But he sint the cattle an' sheep to Darby, an' 
 maybe he was a bether man in his poverty, for he nivir 
 throubled thim agin. 
 
 But Black Dermod, they say, was losht in the say, 
 and some says he was tuk away be the say king's dather 
 for the harrum he would have done to Darby O'Toole. 
 
 Thin down at Fiona's castle there was feasting for 
 seven days, and Honora came quick back to him, the 
 sweet eyes of her clear with joy, an' thin Darby gave the 
 bottles back to the little man, for they wud not have 
 magic in the house. 
 
 And whin the little man was goin' he bid Darby look 
 down to the barn, and there was Acushla and Mavour- 
 neen, fat and sleek, grazin' away, quiet and aisy. 
 
 “ There is luck in a brave heart, an' maybe bether 
 luck in a kind one," says the little man, an' wint. 
 
 There was soon a sight ov cottages about the land, and 
 com and hay, an' cows an' sheep an' horses, an' Darby 
 an ' his wife nivir forgot the poor. He lived on there with 
 
 c* 
 
74 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 Fiona his wife, and Honora his mother, the happiest man 
 in all Ireland. The land gave to him and the say gave 
 to him in plinty. 
 
 So there he lived an* his childthren afther him for 
 many years ; and if ye go to the great wide sands now 
 sthretching away lonesome and splindid, goulden and 
 grey, and if ye look inland ye can see the roons ov 
 the castle, an' the square marks of little houses, and thin 
 ye can walk pasht the sandhills, where the shamerogues 
 make a net of yelly and green, and on to where the 
 heather is pink an' purple an' mauve, and the brown 
 sthreams croon pasht the ferrns in the rocks, and ye can 
 think of Darby O'Toole and his wife, who lived there 
 happy and contint. 
 
MR. JONES HELPS 
 MOSENTHALS 
 
MR. JONES HELPS MOSENTHALS 
 
 L ITTLE Mr. Jones, head clerk in the firm of 
 Mosenthals & Co., stopped to look lovingly 
 in the firm's window. Mosenthals did not 
 go in for show. A priceless pink pearl was 
 flung carelessly on to a fold of purple velvet. A few 
 unset diamonds blended on a bed of satin. A string^of 
 emeralds hung over a stand, and a few finished pieces 
 of work were dotted about just to show what the sellers 
 ^could do. 
 
 Mr. Jones knew the wealth which lurked in the small 
 shop, and the treasures which were hidden upstairs. 
 
 “ Robbers ! " he murmured. “ If there were no 
 robbers." He grew pale, recalling his adventures in 
 Paris when he had shot and killed apaches, and saved 
 his firm thousands. 
 
 Someone bumped into him rudely, and Mr. Jones 
 dropped a precious package of sweet-peas which he 
 was bringing home to Anna, his wife. He had been 
 out on a message for Mr. Amos Mosenthals. 
 
 “ They're gone ! The bump," he wailed, going down on 
 his knees. “ Gone." The sallow gentleman who had 
 bumped into him had just alighted from an electric 
 brougham, driven by a black chauffeur, and looked in 
 amazement at the little man. 
 
 “ What are gone ? " he said. “ Sorry." 
 
 “ Gone," said little Jones, groping in the mud. 
 
 It is easy to attract a crowd in Bond Street, even 
 in the morning. Several people stopped, and a police- 
 man walked towards Mosenthals. 
 
 “ And Mr. Amos expected me. I am late, and now 
 they're gone." 
 
78 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 The sallow man looked anxious. 
 
 “ Belong to Mosenthals? " he said nasally, his mind 
 immediately turning to jewels. 
 
 Mr. Jones snapped, “ Of course/' and groped, finding 
 odd sweet -peas. 
 
 “ Pass along," said the policeman. 
 
 Mr. Samuel P. Rockfeller, the aggressor, here explained 
 that he had bumped into one of Mosenthals' men, and the 
 idiot had dropped some jewels. 
 
 " Clear away the crowd, officer." 
 
 “ Carrying them loose? " snarled Mr. Rockfeller. 
 
 “ No, in a paper bag," returned Mr. Jones, from the 
 gutter. 
 
 Mr. Rockfeller ejaculated, “ Gee ! " heavily. 
 
 “ I've got six," said little Jones, “ seven, eight. I 
 wonder how many there w r ere." 
 
 “ What 'ave you dropped ? " said the policeman, who 
 knew little Archibald Jones. 
 
 “ Sweet -peas," said Mr. Jones. “ Gladys Unwin." 
 
 Mr. Rockfeller swung on his heel, and darted into the 
 private entrance, cursing all fools as he went. Little 
 Jones, getting up, thought he saw a one-eyed man in 
 the crowd, and his heart missed a beat ; he distrusted 
 all one-eyed men horribly since his adventure in Paris. 
 Then he dusted his clothes, and looked at the electric 
 car ; he was doubtful as to the owner's position. 
 
 “ Where is he — Dr. Faustus ? " he said absently. 
 
 Dr. Faustus is the name of a black pansy, and Mr. 
 Jones blushed at his slip. 
 
 The darkie suggested blandly that Mr. Jones should 
 go home and enquire. 
 
 “ Home to Bedlam," said ‘ Dr. Faustus ' crisply. 
 
 “ None o' your lip, Black Pearl," said Mr. Jones 
 haughtily, going in the private entrance. 
 
 He went to his desk. Mr. Rockfeller was with the 
 partners. 
 
 The speaking-tube bell rang, and a clerk looked up. 
 
 “ Wanted in the Holies," he said, “ Mr. Jones." 
 
 Little Mr. Jones dusted his knees again and went in. 
 
MR. JONES HELPS MOSENTHALS 
 
 79 
 
 Mr. Amos Mosenthal was drawing devils on the 
 blotter, a sure sign of worry. Mr. Samuel P. Rockfeller 
 was speaking. They were heavy-featured dark men, 
 with quiet faces. 
 
 “ I've met him before/' he snapped, “ hunting for 
 sweet-peas in Bond Street. Your head clerk, 
 Mosenthal ? ” 
 
 His contempt was quite immense as he queried. 
 
 “ Mr. Jones has a great mind," said Mr. Samuel 
 drily, " or so my brother thinks. Do these up, Jones." 
 
 Mr. Samuel saw the millionaire out. Mr. Jones 
 parcelled up the jewels deftly. 
 
 " Jones," snapped Mr. Amos, “ Jones, we're in a 
 difficulty." Mr. Jones meekly was sorry to hear it. 
 
 Mr. Amos Mosenthal sighed. The firm was burdened 
 with the charge of a very pretty niece, Gladys Hartley. 
 Miss Hartley had an eligible suitor, rich and blameless, 
 who had once been on someone's staff in France, and she 
 inclined towards an impecunious major, minus half a 
 foot, and plus several decorations. Miss Hartley's 
 dowry was a matter for her rich uncles, but they wished 
 her to marry money, not from meanness — the|Mosen- 
 thals were generous men — but from the force of custom, 
 which drove them to secure the best bargain at all times. 
 Mr. Amos drew devils on his blotter, and wondered if the 
 little man could help. Mr. Jones was a married man. 
 
 Mr. Jones' last effort at help had consisted in catching 
 a blameless detective in mistake for a spy, when he had 
 been sent to look after a dubious customer on the East 
 Coast. The fate of the spectacled little man tracking 
 the spy-hunter, who, in his turn, had taken Mr. Jones 
 for a German, has been written down. 
 
 Still sketching, Mr. Amos shot out his tale, reserving 
 the names. 
 
 Mr. Jones put two fine emeralds together, deciding that 
 the largest was faulty. 
 
 “ Miss Gladys and Colonel Hume," he said humbly, 
 “ and Major Greer, Mr. Amos." Then he put down the 
 emeralds and took out his sweet-peas. 
 
8o 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 " As a gardener, Mr. Amos/' he said, “ wot's tended 
 dies, and weeds grows. I've noticed in the glass-'ouse — 
 house — that frequent. Why not try tending, Mr. 
 Amos ? Just push the Colonel and try a little jealousy 
 as to Major Greer, or the jealousy with Colonel Hume. 
 Wot a young lady sees always, they don't always want.” 
 
 “ Napoleon,” murmured Mr. Amos softly, and his 
 brother paused. Then they discussed the subject 
 of a gentleman who wrote from Beachville-on-Sea to 
 say he wanted a diamond necklace, and asking, as he 
 was an invalid, if some could be sent down for him to 
 see. He enclosed a large cheque as a cover. 
 
 “ Scott Fellowes,”said Mr. Samuel. “ We sent a few 
 things to him. Has some old place there. Somehow 
 don't like his letter. Jones wants a change ; he's 
 peaky. Let him go and enquire, see if the chap's genuine 
 or not.” 
 
 " You wish me to bring all my tact and knowledge 
 to bear in the matter? ” said little Mr. Jones. 
 
 “ Having no one else to go, yes,” said Mr. Samuel 
 Mosenthal tersely. " Smell about. The man wants big 
 things from us.” 
 
 Mr. Jones sighed as he realised that he was again to 
 be entrusted with a difficult mission. He got Anna, his 
 wife, to pack his bag. He ordered her to open and shut 
 the little greenhouse in accordance with the sun's move- 
 ments, and directed her to water freely. 
 
 Anna Jones accepted the directions with reserve, 
 though she was too fond of her meek little spouse to 
 allow his plants to die. 
 
 Then Mr. Jones, armed with Tit-Bits and Pearson's 
 Weekly , took train from Liverpool Street, and plunged 
 into a competition. He was not weighed down by 
 carrying jewels as on a former occasion. 
 
 It was early summer, the hedges mostly green ; the 
 thorn, like snow, sparkled in the meadows. The air 
 grew chill as the line neared the coast. Beachville-on- 
 Sea sparkled in sunlight, with a cold wind making the 
 golden sands dance. Mr. Jones was driven to a 
 
MR. JONES HELPS MOSENTHALS 
 
 81 
 
 pretentious hotel with draughty wooden verandahs, and 
 low-ceiled rooms with French windows. There was no 
 fire in the empty coffee-room. He shivered as he drank 
 his tea, and decided to keep on his great coat. 
 
 '‘With all the pneumonia about/' murmured Mr. 
 Jones, wondering if they would let him go into the 
 kitchen to get warm. 
 
 The sea was blue, its little waves coldly fringed with 
 white. The wind blew fiercely, rustling through the 
 dry grass on the sandhills. 
 
 Mr. Jones went to the office, where he questioned the 
 lady in charge with such marked deftness that she rushed 
 off to tell the landlord. 
 
 “ 'Tec," she whispered. “ Nothing he didn't ask, 
 I tell you. Who lived here and there ; said he was down 
 on pleasure, not on business ; and more questions." 
 
 The landlord told the head waiter, who confided it to 
 the Boots. 
 
 "A 'tec from London. What's up ? " 
 
 Mr. Jones peeped on to the terrace, and saw a very 
 pretty girl sitting alone there. Her eyelids were sus- 
 piciously pink and her mouth drooped sadly. 
 
 He went back to the office. 
 
 “Miss Hanly, the manager's niece," said the lady 
 in charge civilly. 
 
 Mr. Jones saw the landlord go out and heard stormy 
 words, which he could not distinguish, then the sound of 
 sobs. 
 
 “ Something very distressing on the tapis,” said Mr. 
 Jones. 
 
 The owner of the hotel was a low, mean-looking man 
 with a saturnine face. He evidently bullied his niece. 
 
 “ Remember you have no money," Mr. Jones heard 
 him say. 
 
 Mr. Jones, who was watched out of the hotel, found 
 the way to the village, rejoicing in a road with high 
 hedges which trapped the sunshine, and shut out a view 
 of the cold sea. He went into the general shop and 
 bought some sweets and cigarettes, and stayed to gossip 
 
82 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 He gossiped and questioned so importantly that the 
 shopman grew curious. When the Boots from the 
 inn came down and whispered a communication, Mr. 
 Black said, “ I thought as much,” and answered Mr. 
 Jones* further questions with intense respect, saying, 
 “ Sir ” quite frequently. 
 
 “ It is wonderful,” thought Mr. Jones, “ how capa- 
 bility commands respect.” 
 
 “ Mr. Scott Fellowes? Yes, sir. Paralysed gent, 
 expecting a cure. Been 'ere since nineteen-hundred- 
 and-seventeen ; lives quiet at the Rose Bower. Pays ? 
 Well, pays very regular ; orders not so great now since 
 peace times.” 
 
 Black, the shopman, then proceeded to say, jocularly, 
 that the best of a local grocer was his power to give 
 information. 
 
 “To do so, and have nothing to conceal, are great 
 matters,” said Mr. Jones absently. 
 
 At this, Black flushed, and hurriedly asked if he could 
 oblige with sultanas or extra sugar — if the gentleman was 
 married — also candied peel. 
 
 Mr. Jones accepted graciously ; he knew how Anna 
 desired these things. 
 
 “ Miss Hanly is a-goin' to marry him,” confided Black. 
 
 “ Marry a cripple ! ” said Jones. 
 
 “ Well, they do talk of a cure, and they're goin' away. 
 Powerful lot of money he must have to get her. Her 
 uncle's working it.” 
 
 “ Horrible,” said little Jones. “ Poor child.” 
 
 “An' 'ere,” said Black, “ is Scott Fellowes 'imself.” 
 
 A lean man with a bleached sallow face, and piercing 
 eyes drove a seedy pony to the door. Black went out 
 to take the order. 
 
 The Boots, coming up, passed by the phaeton to whis- 
 per to Mr. Scott Fellowes, who immediately tried to look 
 into the shop, past the array of soaps and patent food- 
 stuffs in the window ; but Mr. Jones kept back. He 
 could look into the sunlight — the shop was dim. 
 
 The invalid said, " No, not going up to-day,” to the 
 
MR. JONES HELPS MOSENTHALS 83 
 
 Boots, fidgeted as if he wanted to get past the packed 
 window, and drove away. 
 
 Then Mr. Jones asked his way and walked on. The sea 
 was blue, its little waves coldly fringed with white. 
 The wind blew fiercely, rustling through the dry grass 
 on the sandhills. 
 
 The sheltering hedges broke off suddenly, and the 
 little Londoner shivered as he faced the keen, cool 
 wind. 
 
 “ Death to early seeds,” he said, hurrying on. He 
 went in the wrong gate to find himself in a garden 
 blazing with spring flowers : anemones, forget-me-nots, 
 
 double daisies, narcissi ; and he stood in ecstasy. If 
 the man loved flowers he could not be so bad. 
 
 A gardener shuffled into view, and Mr. Jones found 
 that he was in Fir Grove, not in Rose Bower ; but, melted 
 by his visitor's ecstasies, the man offered to point out 
 a short cut. 
 
 Little Jones climbed over a stile, and made his way 
 through a stunted shrubbery, until he saw a gloomy house 
 surrounded by overgrown laurels, and the only rose, a 
 thing of innumerable weak shoots, beckoning from the 
 walls. 
 
 The pony-trap was being taken away from the door, 
 and the owner had been transferred to a wheeled chair, 
 which he worked with powerful, slim hands. 
 
 " There/' said Mr. Jones, “ there,” and shuddered. 
 He was almost inclined to think that the man taking 
 the pony had a shade over his eye. 
 
 “ There,” he said and dodged back. He had made 
 no plan. How was he to approach this Mr. Scott 
 Fellowes ? 
 
 He moved about undecidedly, and the man leading 
 the pony saw him, and ran to his master. 
 
 “ Someone lurking in the bushes, sir,” he whispered. 
 
 Mr. Scott Fellowes grew white. 
 
 " Some whisper that he's a mystery from the hotel, 
 sir.” 
 
 Mr. Fellowes grew paler. 
 
84 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 Mr. Jones came out with dignified carriage. The words 
 “ Life Insurance ” had flashed to his brain. 
 
 Reserved and undecided, he crossed to the wheeled 
 chair. His endeavour was doubled by the thought that 
 in a day or two he would have to say that he was Mosen- 
 thals' agent, but the natural suspicion of Jewel Firms 
 must account for the camouflage. 
 
 Mr. Fellowes propelled the chair up a flagged passage, 
 and into a dim room with a huge acetylene gas-lamp 
 hanging over a square table. 
 
 “ Now you, sir,” said Mr. Scott Fellowes slowly. 
 
 Mr. Scott Fellowes was a sallow man with false teeth 
 and dark eyeglasses. He moved once or twice in his 
 chair quite easily. 
 
 " Calling round,” said Mr. Jones, “ as Life Insurance 
 agent, hearing of this remote village. Curiously ” 
 
 Mr. Scott Fellowes' sinuous hands gripped his chair. 
 
 ” I should scarcely have thought that I was a likely 
 subject,” he said drily. 
 
 Mr. Jones blushed and murmured “ Creaking gates.” 
 He also quoted, quite to himself, as he thought, " The 
 strong shall be taken, and the weak left.” 
 
 “ So I came here — also hearing of your approaching 
 marriage — to hope to induce you — sir ” 
 
 “ What company ? ” Scott Fellowes rasped out, 
 “ Hey ? ” 
 
 “ The — the Mercantile Marine Insurance,” stammered 
 Mr. Jones, upset by the “ Hey ! ” 
 
 Mr. Fellowes very crisply said that he guessed the 
 Marines were in it. 
 
 “ Money any use to you ? ” he said slowly. “ Good 
 stuff, money. A few hundreds now for your — er — 
 company.” 
 
 “ Money,” said Mr. Jones simply, “ is always useful.” 
 
 “They've sent you?” Fellowes leant forward and 
 stared. 
 
 Mr. Jones believed himself discovered. He said 
 “ Yes — and apologising for the cammyflage,” he added 
 pleasantly. 
 
MR. JONES HELPS MOSENTHALS 85 
 
 “ You look pretty seedy,” said the invalid. 
 
 Mr. Jones said that he was feeling better. Over- 
 strain from robber-catching had knocked him up for 
 a time. 
 
 “ A few hundreds,” said Scott Fellowes, “ on account, 
 as if, even ” 
 
 Mr. Jones murmured “ Diamonds ” half to himself. 
 
 “ Cash down would meet the case,” he said ; “ that is 
 the idea.” 
 
 ”111 pay you cash down in three days,” said the 
 sallow man. 
 
 “ Which, of course, is the same,” said Mr. Jones 
 graciously. “ If you keep the necklace from Mosenthals' 
 — it will suit us both. Of course I must risk nothing.” 
 
 Scott Fellowes rasped out that some people knew too 
 much. He stared bitterly. 
 
 “ One's always caught on the last lap,” he said. “ Now 
 you, Jones — it's a handy name — come back in three 
 days, and I'll give you your price. I won't vamoose; 
 no doubt you'll see to that. I want the shiners for the 
 girl — for Beatrice.” 
 
 Little Jones, sitting meekly, thought it all very 
 curious. Why should this man talk of vamoosing — 
 anglice, to run away — if he meant to pay the price 
 honestly for the necklace ? 
 
 “ Well, I'll wait,” said Mr. Jones, “and if you — er — 
 arrange with me, you shall have the diamonds, sir.” 
 
 Mr. Scott Fellowes concentrated his bitter stare. 
 
 “ I suppose looks conceal a lot,” he said musingly. 
 
 ” Brains aren't worn outside. Hey, you little ” 
 
 he bit off, “ Mouse,” just too late, “ you shan't lose by 
 it, anyhow.” 
 
 Mr. Jones left the dark room, and went down the 
 flagged passage. He was bewildered. Going to the 
 post-office, he procured a large strong envelope, and 
 returned to the hotel to write to Mr. Amos Mosenthal. 
 
 Just outside he could see the melancholy girl sitting 
 with her chin supported by her hands. 
 
 Little Jones told his employer that he would like to 
 
86 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 see him. There was something wrong and he could 
 not guess what it was. He also mentioned incidentally 
 that there was a sad girl about to be practically given 
 to this invalid, and that the whole place depressed him. 
 
 “ He — Mr. S. F. — says he will have the price ready 
 for me in three days, cash down, but I mistrust him,” 
 wrote Mr. Jones, in his neat hand. “ I am quite pre- 
 pared to carry the matter through alone, but should like 
 your advice. The jewels are valuable. Might I sug- 
 gest, sir, a dummy as first delivery ? I wouldn’t do it 
 otherwise, Mr. Amos, reely ! ” 
 
 Archibald Jones took this letter to the post-office 
 himself, mailing it by express delivery, thus confirming 
 the idea that he was down on no ordinary business. 
 
 Mr. Amos Mosenthal answered it in person, driving his 
 high-powered car. He listened to Mr. Jones’ account 
 of the affair. He went into the village street to see Mr. 
 Scott Fellow es drive past, and his expression was one of 
 reservation. Then he stepped on to the verandah to 
 speak to Miss Beatrice Hanly. 
 
 She answered him absently. Mr. Amos said he would 
 like to see the beach, and she got up without a word, 
 leading the way to it. They were away for an hour. 
 
 “ A very sensible girl,” said Mr. Amos on his return. 
 
 “ Without very great powers of conversation,” sug- 
 gested Mr. Jones diffidently. “ I have endeavoured to 
 talk to her.” 
 
 “ That’s it ; doesn’t help one, saying ‘ Yes ’ and 4 No,’ ” 
 said Mr. Amos Mosenthal, drawing devils on the hotel 
 blotter. He stayed the night, giving the name of Smith, 
 the saturnine landlord staring at him ; and he was off to 
 London early the next morning, having gathered from 
 the silent girl her late father’s name and address. 
 
 Mr. Scott Fellowes did not come to the hotel, but Miss 
 Hanly disappeared at tea-time with her uncle, and there 
 were traces of tears on her lids when she returned. 
 
 On the third day Mr. Amos came down again, explain- 
 ing that he had written from London to Scott Fellowes, 
 saying the jewels would be sent on approval by a trusted 
 
MR. JONES HELPS MOSENTHALS 87 
 
 messenger, and Mr. Jones was to take them over. They 
 were real, not dummies. 
 
 Mr. Jones walked over. It was silent in the little 
 place. The dark man showed him in, and the inner 
 room was so dim after the glare outside, that little Jones 
 blinked. Then he saw the paralysed man sitting in his 
 chair. 
 
 " Come to appointment/' said Mr. Jones nervously. 
 He did not like it, the lonely house, this mystery man, 
 no one within call. 
 
 " I've got the money," said Mr. Scott Fellowes. 
 “ Take it an' I'm off. You're all the same, mice or rats, 
 ready to be fed." 
 
 Mr. Jones objected to being likened to rodents, and 
 said so coldly. 
 
 " A hundred and fifty," said Mr. Fellowes. " How 
 d'y' get them ? " 
 
 "Three thousand," said Mr. Jones, putting the case 
 on the table. "Messrs. Mosenthals are allowing you to 
 see if the necklace will suit, and I " 
 
 Mr. Scott Fellowes appeared to bound in his chair. 
 
 "Mr. Mosenthals! Are you," he shot out, "only — 
 
 Mosenthals' ma*n? Mosenthals! Mosen — Mose " his 
 
 speech petered out. 
 
 Mr. Jones advised calm, through a silence which was 
 fraught with electricity. He explained, as to a child, 
 the precautions which jewel firms were obliged to take. 
 How he had been sent down to make notes, as it were, 
 to bring his experience and intelligence to bear on the 
 matter, to see if it were desirable that Mr. Fellowes' 
 request should be complied with . It had. On production 
 of the money the necklace would be left. These were 
 his instructions. Or if c. cheque he must see it cashed. 
 
 " Mosenthals' clerk ! Am I sane ? I took you for a 
 blasted 'tec," groaned Mr. Scott Fellowes. " I was 
 buying you. Here, I'm mad. Will you take your 
 notes, and go — you, Jones — amiably ? " 
 
 Mr. Jones, feeling his spine creep, said, " Certainly 
 not, sir." 
 
88 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 The long white hands opened the case, and the peerless 
 necklace flashed and winked in the thin light which 
 came through the Venetian blinds. 
 
 “ Then have a drink while I get the cash,” said 
 Fellowes genially. “ That's your commission. Have 
 a B. and S.” 
 
 Mr. Jones murmured, “ Stone ginger.” Bottles 
 stood on the table ; the invalid wheeled himself towards 
 it, and poured out some golden liquid. Mr. Jones took 
 one sip and paused ; the word “dope ” sprang up before 
 him. He laid the glass down ; his head swam, his limbs 
 were lead. Through a mist he saw the paralytic rise from 
 his chair, and walk across the room, going swiftly 
 and easily. 
 
 “ I shall pretend to be worse than I am,” thought 
 Mr. Jones, lolling supinely, his mouth slack. 
 
 “ Wretched mouse ! Rat too good for you,” said Scott 
 Fellowes. “ And Sam Slavy took you for a 'tec — and a 
 venial one. The girl's dollars must go now. No time 
 to get hers for myself.” 
 
 The mist clearing, Mr. Jones saw the sallow man 
 taking little parcels from drawers, and stowing them 
 about him. Last of all, he picked up tne necklace, and 
 without haste commenced to prise the stones from their 
 delicate setting. 
 
 Now Mr. Jones had taken very little dope; this 
 destruction touched a spring in his befogged brain. He 
 drew in his small feet, he set his teeth, and blinked at 
 a heavy candlestick on the table. 
 
 Scott Fellowes was absorbed in his work. He heard 
 no movement, did not see the drugged little man rise 
 unsteadily. 
 
 “ For England, Home, and Beauty,” said Mr. Jones 
 in drunken accents, as he struck with his brass 
 weapon. 
 
 The strength of the blow would not have injured 
 anybody, but the candlestick was heavy and came down 
 on the base of Mr. Fellowes' skull, so that he toppled 
 down stunned. 
 
MR. JONES HELPS MOSENTHALS 89 
 
 Mr. Jones, still dazed, picked up the necklace — it 
 was greatly injured — swept .up any loose stones and his 
 notes, and staggered to the door. He came out into 
 the brilliant sunshine, to see a motor in the avenue. 
 The driver stared suspiciously at Mr. Jones. 
 
 “ Master ready ? ” he queried. 
 
 " You will find him in there ; he is dead,” said Mr. 
 Jones mildly. “ I regret it, but I have again killed a 
 man.” 
 
 “ You're a desperado, Jones,” said Mr. Amos Mosen- 
 thal, from the other side of the fence where he was wait- 
 ing with three plain-clothes men. 
 
 " You see, he would have completely disembowelled 
 the necklace if I had not struck,” said Mr. Jones. “ I 
 feel exceedingly ill. He took me for a detective. Oh 
 dear, oh dear ! ” 
 
 One of the plain-clothes men saw a tap, and put cold 
 water on Mr. Jones' head. He then felt well enough to 
 remonstrate. 
 
 They hurried to the house to find Mr. Scott Fellowes 
 just sitting up with murder in his eyes. His dash to the 
 window was so swift that he was secured with difficulty, 
 fighting hard. 
 
 “ That blighted little mouse! ” he said. “ But for 
 him, with his insurance agency and his marines . . .Took 
 him for a new 'tec.” 
 
 One man coughed softly before he laughed to himself. 
 
 “ Mosenthals,” said Mr. Jones gently, “ would not 
 send a man without resource on an errand like this. 
 They trusted to ME.” Here he drew himself up. 
 
 “ To be done by a mouse ! ” groaned Mr. Fellowes. 
 " If it was even a decent rat ! ” 
 
 Mr. Archibald Jones said “ tut,” pettishly. 
 
 " Our Mr. Jones,” murmured Mr. Amos Mosenthal, 
 “ invariably does the right thing — generally by — er — 
 mistake. Know this man, Stewart ? Hello ! Why, 
 what's up ? ” 
 
 For the plain-clothes man addressed was slashing and 
 ripping at the wheeled chair, the padded cushions 
 
90 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 yielding padding and then papers, mystic looking little 
 scraps covered with fine writing. 
 
 “ We'd suspected someone," said the man Stewart. 
 “ but could find out nothing. There's a deep creek 
 up here, and this fellow was often rowed out in a boat. 
 When he'd done getting paid by Germany, he went 
 back to his old lay — jewel robbery. They'll make it 
 life, for sure, Sam Scott, this time." 
 
 “ And this girl," said Amos Mosenthal, “ this girl, 
 Scott ? " 
 
 “ Going to get hold of her money, halve it with the 
 uncle," said Scott bitterly. “ Wanted capital. I was 
 sharing it with her uncle. Oh, I'd have kept the invalid 
 tack, an' let her go. I'm no Don Juan." 
 
 Mr. Amos Mosenthal carried the girl off to London to 
 stay with his niece. He had read her father's will, 
 seeing that Beatrice got complete control of her money 
 on her marriage, and guessed the rest. The contents 
 of the will had been concealed from her, and she believed 
 herself to be a pauper. 
 
 “ And about this, sir," said Mr. Jones, putting out 
 notes to the value of one hundred pounds. “ I had 
 forgotten all about it." 
 
 “ Under the circumstances, I should keep it," said 
 Mr. Samuel Mosenthal calmly. “ Put up a new green- 
 house, Jones. And we are obliged to you, Jones, for 
 again saving the firm. At present we are worried, 
 because we cannot get that Rockfeller order through. 
 One stone cannot be found, nothing to match the others. 
 Samuel P. spends his hours raving down the 'phone, be- 
 cause he must start for home next week. 
 
 “ I am going up to see Gladys now," snapped Mr. 
 Samuel, “ to talk straight to her. Young Greer is 
 hanging about there. True, she's protected by that 
 strangely silent maiden you brought up. What on 
 earth you see in her, Amos — - — •" 
 
 “ I never have to find answers for her," said Mr. Amos, 
 drawing a devil carrying a bow and arrow. 
 
MR. JONES IS CONSULTED BY 
 THE FIRM 
 

MR. JONES IS CONSULTED BY 
 THE FIRM 
 
 !T HE window-dresser of Mosenthals & Co had 
 stepped outside to contemplate the sombre 
 splendour of his work, and having decided 
 it was perfect, grew irritable when Mr. 
 Archibald Jones, one of the clerks, said it was meanish. 
 
 “Too much white, '' said Mr. Jones. “Chuck in a 
 [sapphire or two, Potts, or something coloured. It's 
 corpsy.'' 
 
 Mr. Potts replied pettishly that Mr. Jones' mind ran 
 on carpet -bedding, and retired to move a necklace of 
 milky pearls. He had just congratulated himself on the 
 softness of his scheme: pearls, a few here and there, 
 winking diamonds, and one marvellous fire opal, gleaming 
 wickedly. 
 
 “ Thinkin' of nasturtiums, you are," said Mr. Potts 
 pettishly. Everyone at Mosenthals' knew that Mr. 
 Jones was a gardener, rushing homewards to his sweet- 
 peas and the greenhouse in which many things damped 
 off or were scorched up. 
 
 “ I agree with Mr. Jones,'' said Miss Gladys Hartley 
 softly. “ I like colour, Mr. Potts. Get some sapphires 
 or emeralds.'' 
 
 Miss Hartley was, as Mr. Jones put it, “ the firm's 
 niece.'' The little clerk was devoted to her, for she some- 
 times asked him to tea to the big house at Lancaster 
 Gate and showed him the flowers in the conservatory. 
 He would spend an hour staring at the gorgeous blooms 
 which were sent in by a nursery gardener, but he always 
 said firmly that he liked to grow things himself. 
 
94 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 “ My carnations from the cuttings 'ave — Aaving 
 grown all weak-like,” said Mr. Jones on the occasion 
 of his last visit ; " but I likes to watch them even fall, Miss 
 Gladys. It's creative.” 
 
 So Mr. Jones was flattered when the firm's niece 
 agreed with him. Gladys Hartley was accompanied by 
 Beatrice Hanly, who proffered no comment, being a girl 
 who seldom spoke, and in consequence a great friend 
 of the silent member of the firm, Mr. Amos Mosenthal. 
 
 Mr. Jones asked politely what brought Miss Gladys 
 out so early, and the young lady said business, but 
 blushed as she said it. 
 
 Mr. Jones went through the office|door to his seat. 
 Next moment the clerk by the speaking-tube announced 
 that Mr. Amos wished to see Mr. Jones. 
 
 The little man put away a seed catalogue and hurried 
 to the firm's private room. 
 
 Mr. Amos Mosenthal, a large man, was there alone, 
 gloomily looking at a necklace of emeralds. 
 
 “ Here we are again,” he said. " Complete and gaudy, 
 but neither of the pendants ; and the letter — you don't 
 read French, Jones ? ” 
 
 Mr. Jones replied that he disliked the language. 
 
 “ Says they won't be here for ten days. Rock- 
 
 feller leaves to-morrow,” said Mr. Amos wearily. 
 “ He'll raise Cain. Talks too much, that man does, 
 Jones.” 
 
 Mr. Amos drew a devil on his blotting-pad and relapsed 
 into silence. Mr. Samuel Mosenthal, who was also big, 
 bustled in. 
 
 “ Just seen Gladys off towards the Park,” he said. 
 “ Amos, something must be done.” 
 
 Mr. Amos drew a devil expressively. 
 
 “ There's Hume, heir to baronetcy, sensible age, and 
 Greer without a penny,” he stormed. “ Hey, Amos, 
 say something.” 
 
 Mr. Amos Mosenthal looked up, said, “ Mons medal, 
 M.C., three wound stripes,” and drew again. 
 
 “ Hume is covered with decorations,” said Mr. 
 Samuel. 
 
MR. JONES IS CONSULTED BY THE FIRM 95 
 
 " Base — France,” said Mr, Amos ; “ consult Jones, 
 Samuel.” 
 
 Feeling that he must speak to someone who would 
 answer him, Mr. Samuel went into his grievances. His 
 niece was trifling with a graceless, limping soldier who had 
 done great things in France, when she might marry a 
 staff officer who had never done anything. Mr. Samuel 
 Mosenthal had not the least idea that Mr. Jones would 
 proffer advice, but the little clerk was always anxious 
 to help. 
 
 “ My Anna, Mr. Samuel,” he said, “ relies on praise 
 as an antidote.” 
 
 Mr. Samuel glared. 
 
 “ Contra-trar-iety of human nature,” said Mr. Jones, 
 gulping at the word. “ You praise Colonel Hume, 
 belittle Major Greer. If Miss Gladys wasn't crossed, 
 if the Major was praised to her, and, er — now if she saw 
 him too popular with other ladies,” said Mr. Jones, 
 “ would be my ideas, an' easily arranged with a friend 
 or two, the Major lunching with others. See the idea ? ” 
 said Mr. Jones pleasantly. 
 
 “ Only thing I see is this damn necklace,” said Mr. 
 Amos suddenly, “ and hear Rockfeller at the door/ 1 
 
 Samuel P. Rockfeller in an expensive suit and a black 
 pearl in his tie which Mr. Amos could have told him was 
 not perfect, hurried in. Samuel Rockfeller never did any- 
 thing slowly. He had ordered the emerald necklace a 
 montbubefore from Mosenthals, and was now calling to 
 take it with him. The future Mrs. Rockfeller was to 
 wear it on her wedding-day, as she preferred emeralds 
 to diamonds. 
 
 " Sea pools, ” she had murmured to her adoring fianc6. 
 “ If you can get them flawless.” 
 
 When the millionaire realised that the necklace was 
 not ready, he used language which made Mr. Jones blush. 
 
 Mr. Amos said nothing and Mr. Samuel could only 
 suggest that the necklace should follow its owner to 
 America. This being negatived, he then said the 
 big stones could follow, and the pendants be fixed on out 
 there. 
 
96 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 “ And get stolen,” snarled Rockfeller. “ YouVe told 
 me yourself every stone is watched. Letters got at.” 
 
 He picked up the letter from Paris; it set forth the 
 complete perfections of the two stones. “ You must 
 send a man over, then.” 
 
 “ Hell be followed by apaches,” put in Mr. Jones : 
 nervously. “ Killing them is so unnerving. Ahem ! ” : 
 The cough was the result of the withering look which 
 the American flung at the little clerk. 
 
 “ Glance came with the impetus of a neighbour's snail 
 over the wall,” murmured Mr. Jones to himself. 
 
 “The war has shortened our men,” said Mr. Samuel 
 thoughtfully, “ and — jewels such as this ... I don't 
 know how the blamed thieves find out. They'll get 
 into the cabin, dope the fellow. There's a gang now 
 which must be spiritualists. But we'll do it.” 
 
 “ Send someone capable,” snapped Rockfeller. “ I'll 
 meet the ship and square the customs — that is, arrange 
 for my stones. And see it 's in time for my wedding, you 
 two, or there'll be some row. I'll pay a deposit now.” 
 
 He wrote a cheque carefully, signed it neatly, and 
 after a few more directions flung out in evident bad 
 humour, taking the unfinished necklace with him. 
 Mr. Jones from the window watched him get into his 
 huge car. 
 
 “ There are at least three men who might be spies 
 out there,” he said ; “ a person in tweeds, a man who — 
 gracious heavens, Mr. Amos — whose second eye I cannot 
 see.” 
 
 Mr. Amos drew a devil as he asked how Mr. Jones 
 looking down saw any eyes at all. 
 
 “And a suspicious-looking female,” concluded little 
 Jones ; “ they are all watching Rockfeller, Mr. Samuel.” 
 “The information, I fancy, is again leaking from 
 inside,” said Mr. Samuel gloomily. “Employes know 
 too much and are paid too little to be faithful.” 
 
 “Not all Napoleons,” grunted Mr. Amos, a serious 
 note bordering on affection in his voice. 
 
 “And as to this other business,” said Mr .-s Samuel, 
 
MR. JONES IS CONSULTED BY THE FIRM 97 
 
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 Bt 
 
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 11 
 
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 " Jones suggests no opposition — too much of young 
 Greer, he said. D'ye know, it might be sound." 
 
 "Miss Gladys is going to America, is she not," said 
 Mr. Jones, "in September? — and I believe Colonel 
 Hume is also invited. I should arrange for Major Greer 
 to go also. If there was on board a man of tact, a clever 
 man — if, for instance, I was on board — I should see that 
 Miss Gladys observed Major Greers frothy popularity. 
 Any young actress crossing would, if approached, be 
 friendly with the officer. Opposition, " said Mr. Jones, 
 " is like weeding groundsel : the more you pull it up the 
 more it seeds and grows, while waste comers are free." 
 
 Mr. Amos leant forward. "Jones, well send you 
 with the emeralds," he said. " First-class with Gladys. 
 You shall work it. Think out a way of hiding the things 
 because you'll look so important that everyone will 
 know you've got something to look after. And we'll 
 send your wife too — a trip for her." 
 
 Exhausted by so much speech, Mr. Amos put on his 
 hat and looked gloomy. 
 
 " America ! " gasped Mr. Jones. " Oh, poor Anna, 
 it's 'er dream — her dream — only last night. Send 
 Anna ! " said Mr. Jones. " Oh, Mr. Amos ! " The little 
 man danced. " N'York — I understand, Mr. Samuel, 
 one pronounces it so — and the cream sodas and canvas- 
 bagged ducks — backed, Mr. Samuel, thank you. For 
 the stones," said Mr. Jones, bowing, " you can rely on 
 me as on former occasions." 
 
 Mr. Samuel said, " Right — go." When little Jones 
 had gone out he flew at his brother, battering against 
 complete silence as he declared that the little fool was 
 sure to do something idiotic, and that he'd give away 
 things to Gladys, and that he was sick of his brother's 
 fancies for incompetent asses. 
 
 "Bowed himself out like a leading actor," snorted 
 Mr. Samuel. " Rely on him ! He'll wear the things as tie- 
 pins or something like that, or put them in a chocolate- 
 cream and stare all day at the box. Thirty thousand 
 pounds' worth." Mr. Amos rose and looked at his watch. 
 
 D 
 
9 8 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 41 Taking the girls to lunch/' he said, strolling out. 
 
 " Keep working, Sam — soothe you. You started Jones, 
 remember." 
 
 Mr. Amos Mosenthal passed through the office, noting 
 that little Mr. Jones was working feverishly with a rapt 
 expression on his face. He looked carefully to see if any 
 of the other clerks were watching the little man, but 
 they seemed intent on their work. He went into the 
 discreet shop full of glittering treasures, and stood 
 frowning. Great jewellers have a hundred clean crooks 
 to contend with. One of these was either himself in 
 Mosenthals' employment at the moment, or extracting j 
 information from somebody in it. They had been free 
 for a time, now things were leaking out — and clever 
 robberies taking place. 
 
 Mr. Jones worked feverishly until lunch time, when 
 he rushed to the telephone to speak to Anna his wife, 
 chafing with impatience when answered by Vi let the 
 " girl.” 
 
 "Missus out? Vilet — you can't hear? You never 
 listen ; the wire's all right ; heard you say ‘ Blow 'im,' \ 
 Vi 'let. Tell the Missus we're going to A-mer-i-ca. Got if, ! 
 Vilet ? A-mer-i-ca." 
 
 Here Vi 'let remarked aside, "At 'is hage ! " called, 
 
 " Grocer's ere," into the receiver and rang off. 
 
 Mr. Jones had been asked to tea by the firm's niece, 
 so he could not hurry home. He made his way by tube 
 to Lancaster Gate to find Peter Greer, a pleasant -looking 
 youth with a limp, in the drawing-room. Major Greer's 
 manner was so full of charm that little Mr. Jones- felt like 
 a traitor, but the firm came first, and Miss Gladys was 
 the firm's niece. Gladys took him to see the flowers 
 and the built -out conservatory, fastening a carnation 
 in the little man's coat. She heard with a smile that, the 
 firm considering an escort advisable, Mr. Jones was 
 to go on the ship to America ; and when they returned 
 to the drawing-room Hume was announced. He was 
 an important man of uncertain years, with pince-nez 
 planted dipping his blunt nose. 
 
MR. JONES IS CONSULTED BY THE FIRM 99 
 
 Miss Gladys said “ Br-r-r ! ” from the conservatory 
 door, and sighed impatiently. 
 
 “None of Major Greer's popular ways,” murmured 
 Mr. Jones. “All the ladies like Major Greer. Saw him 
 yesterday at door of the Ritz feted by 'em.” 
 
 Gladys Hartley said “ Oh,” a little irritably. 
 
 “ Takin' in someone all in white, as far as it went, 
 ahem ! ” said Mr. Jones. “ Costume curtailed at either 
 end, Miss Gladys ; somewhat stagey.” 
 
 Now this was true, and Mr. Jones looked on it as a 
 stroke of sheer genius to have recalled the incident. 
 Peter Greer, having begged Gladys to lunch with him, 
 had met a friend and joined his party, which consisted 
 of two musical comedy stars. 
 
 Miss Hartley sighed, and shook hands with Colonel 
 Hume. She poured out tea listlessly. When America 
 was mentioned, Greer sulked, and Mr. Jones asked him 
 why he did not go too, to see the country. 
 
 “ Being accustomed to voyages no doubt I could 
 assist you, Major,” he said modestly, “an' should 
 be pleased to do so.” 
 
 Greer grinned, but looked thoughtful. 
 
 Mr. Jones hurried to the Tube and was rushed to 
 Notting Hill Gate. His fevered rush to the lift drew 
 some pungent comment upon him and he hurried to his 
 home on winged feet. 
 
 “ The benefit of physical training never passes, ” puffed 
 Mr. Jones. 
 
 Anna Jones was at the gate, her kind face puckered. 
 
 “Archibald, if it's more danger,” she said, “at your 
 age . . . A ' merry go ' — what merry go are you going 
 on ?” 
 
 “N'York city — ice creams an' green-back ducks,” 
 gasped Mr. Jones. “The arber, Anna ; I am exhausted.” 
 
 Five minutes later Mrs. Jones was clasping her head 
 to hold it on. A trip to America ! Her life's dream 
 — she and Jones. 
 
 “ And rubbers I shall ask for at Gooches,” said Mrs. 
 Jones, “ and, Archibald, I shall take a bowl and bring 
 
100 IRISH STEW 
 
 home ices for supper ; one must acclimatise oneself a 
 little to the food." 
 
 Life passed quickly for Mr. Jones. The arrival of the 
 emeralds was delayed, and the little man purchased flan- 
 nels and straw hats, directing Anna to be sure to crease 
 everything or even put a little dust on, as he understood 
 new clothing was dutiable. Mrs. Jones surprised him 
 with strange dishes and a variety of canned food — she 
 no longer used the word "tinned" — which gave him 
 indigestion. 
 
 The firm sent for him frequently. It was three weeks 
 later when Mr. Samuel told him that Major Greer had 
 booked a passage on the Glorytania and that they had 
 encouraged him, also that the young man was getting 
 drawn into a theatrical set ; and Mr. Jones felt like a 
 Judas. 
 
 August, sultry and exhausted, sulked thunderously 
 towards September, and the firm of Mosenthals was 
 apprised that a determined attempt had been made to 
 rob the messenger carrying the great emeralds from 
 France. He had been obliged, in fact, to return to Paris 
 to recuperate. The jewels had been packed into a small 
 despatch case chained to him, but at Calais 
 two men dressed as officials had entered the carriage 
 and declared they were in search of one Lebois, a jewel 
 thief, carrying an historical emerald. Goulet, amazed, 
 had presence of mind to shout for help, and in a struggle, 
 with a variety of strangers endeavouring to rescue him, 
 so as to hand him over to the police, he succeeded in 
 keeping his bag. He was badly mauled, but not 
 robbed. 
 
 " But it shows you," said Mr. Samuel, " that there is 
 a traitor." 
 
 " In a despatch box ! " sniffed Mr. Jones ; " so obvious." 
 
 "Which reminds me," said Mr. Samuel, "that you 
 start in a fortnight, Mr. Jones. Now for a plan." 
 
 They commenced to talk it over. 
 
 Ereast pockets, hollow heels, boxes with sliding 
 panels were discussed. Mr. Jones suggested a dinner- 
 
MR. JONES IS CONSULTED BY THE FIRM iox 
 
 roll, but Mr. Samuel thought a stale dinner-roll would 
 attract the attention of any searcher ; and without coming 
 to any conclusion Mr. Jones went home. 
 
 He found his wife trying on a new hat which she 
 was stabbing with two enormous hatpins, made of some 
 lumps of stuff which looked like coloured wax. 
 
 Mr. Jones leaped. He rushed to the 'phone to tell 
 Mr. Amos that he'd got it, and was offended when the 
 senior partner hoped it was a mild attack. 
 
 “Him — impossible to tell you more, sir," said Mr. 
 Jones ; “ almost worth a Tube up, sir." 
 
 Mr. Amos said it might be, and Mr. Jones went to 
 Lancaster Gate to reveal his plan. 
 
 The great emeralds would be embodied in coloured 
 wax, fastened by skilled workmen to a steel pin and 
 chained to Anna's hat. 
 
 “Safe — safe as — peaches in muslin bags," gasped 
 little Jones. “ Who would think of Anna's hatpin ? And 
 ' Anna is quite trustworthy. Quite reliable." 
 
 When Mr. Samuel heard the plan he first swore 
 I freely, and then thought it over. If the thieves were on 
 the watch they would watch Jones and not his wife. 
 
 Matters were then complicated by the fact that Mrs. 
 Jones, quite declining to mix with the saloon, had taken 
 | a second-class ticket, and that Mr. Jones travelled first, 
 so that the stones would not be under his care. Mr. 
 Samuel said that it made it better, and as in any case 
 they were sure to lose the sum they had paid for the 
 emeralds and be shot by Rockfeller for disappointing 
 him, it did not matter. He took a gloomy view of 
 what he termed his brother's madness. 
 
 In some mysterious way Mr. Samuel encouraged 
 Peter Greer to see America, and having studied the 
 passenger list, he paid visits to a certain young actress, 
 Miss Mavis de Vere, coming away with a grim smile on 
 his face. 
 
 Mr. Amos Mosenthal took walks with Miss Hanly, 
 their conversation limited to remarks every ten minutes, 
 and the emeralds arrived safely. 
 
102 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 Four days before the Glorytania sailed, Mr. Amos was 
 closeted with one of their best workmen, and when the 
 day arrived he went to Liverpool himself, to entrust 
 a long narrow box to Mr. Jones. 
 
 " Don't you fail us, Jones," he said ; “ the firm has had 
 some knocks lately. And the insurance is a matter of 
 difficulty now." 
 
 Little Archibald Jones drew himself up as he replied 
 that failure or detection was impossible, and that he 
 would look out for any apaches. “ Look through 
 them, Mr. Amos," said little Jones simply. " See into 
 the blackness of their steely blue minds." 
 
 Mr. Amos rubbed his head softly. 
 
 The huge liner was crowded. People were buzzing 
 about, securing tables and places for their deck chairs, 
 and an astute head steward was reaping the first part 
 of his harvest. 
 
 Gladys, looking bored, strolled on deck escorted by 
 Colonel Hume, her eyes searching the gangway uneasily. 
 At the last moment, Peter Greer, carrying an ornate 
 despatch box with M. de V. blazoned on it in gold 
 lettering, rushed on deck, and handed his burden to a i 
 very pretty girl wearing a great deal of hat and silk 
 stocking, who thanked him sweetly. 
 
 " Any more for the shore ? " 
 
 Mr. Amos Mosenthal walked off looking gloomy. : 
 Mr. Samuel followed, his expression a blend of sneer and 
 smile, and Mr. Jones hurried to his wife's cabin. 
 
 She shared it with a girl of sixteen but her cabin mate 
 was on deck. 
 
 Had Mr. Jones known, his hurried movements were 
 watched by two pairs of keen eyes, whose owners noted 
 that he kept one hand over his pocket as he ran 
 along. ^ I 
 
 Anna Jones had objected strongly to taking charge of 
 the valuable stones, but after a time she grew to feel 
 rather proud of it, remarking that they were much safer 
 with her. She accepted the charge, now removing a 
 large bright blue hatpin with the steel safety-pin. 
 
MR. JONES IS CONSULTED BY THE FIRM 103 
 
 "There's one error, Archibald," she said. " I should 
 have had a pin for t'other one. See — it's just stuck in 
 ordinary like." 
 
 "No one will look so close at your Aat," said Mr. 
 Jones pettishly, "or steal a hatpin, Anna." 
 
 He returned to the first-class, to feel more like Judas 
 than ever when Peter Greer sat beside him and talked 
 to him of his troubled life. 
 
 " Can't make out why those old buffers urged me to 
 come out here," he said, "when they're so set against 
 the match ; but they did, and now it's Gladys who is 
 shying off." 
 
 Here he was called by Miss de Vere, who wanted her 
 tea, and he had to take his with her. 
 
 Gladys Hartley, coming into the lounge, sat by Mr. 
 Jones, who was drinking in the magnificence of his 
 surroundings, and said she hated ships. 
 
 "All wiggle and squirm and low ceilings," she said 
 irritably. " Major Greer here ? " 
 
 " Some young lady came to ask to take him 
 to tea," said Mr. Jones. "He is so popular, Miss 
 Gladys." 
 
 Miss Gladys, chin in air, asked Mr. Jones to fetch 
 Colonel Hume, and they would all have tea together. 
 
 Mr. Jones' mind was at rest. He spent a large portion 
 of his time with his Anna, who never took off her hat on 
 deck, and his eyes strayed with pride to the bright blue 
 lump of wax which was boon companion to a large glass 
 bead. 
 
 He made friends. A charming little clergyman in the 
 second-class found a kindred soul in Mr. Jones ; they 
 talked of sweet -peas and greenhouses, and Mr. Jones 
 confided how his life's dream was to have a little house 
 in Surrey and exhibit at shows when the firm could 
 spare him. 
 
 " City firm ? " asked Mr. Green. " Drapery ? Travel- 
 ling, I suppose ? " 
 
 Little Jones was on the alert for suspicious persons — 
 this question lulled him pleasantly. Any crook on his 
 

 104 IRISH STEW 
 
 ’ 
 
 trail would know too well that he belonged to the great 
 Mosenthals. 
 
 He said “ Jewels ” proudly. 
 
 “ I have so many confidential errands now/ 1 he said ; 
 “ see no hopes of retiring ; but when they can replace 
 me I trust to get away. Samuel has hinted at a pension.” 
 
 Mr. Green was equally civil to Anna Jones ; he was, in 
 fact, a charming companion. 
 
 He sympathised with Jones when the little clerk 
 talked of nerve strain. He said it must be a relief to 
 come on a regular pleasure trip, and looked astonished 
 when Mr. Jones grunted importantly. 
 
 The little man found another friend in the first-class, 
 a Mr. Henderson, a sandy, freckled man neither old nor 
 young, apparently rich and with a leaning towards 
 socialism. Mr. Jones had suspected several other men 
 who tried to be friendly, particularly a slender, snappy 
 American who offered him cocktails. 
 
 “ In my position one must not drink with strangers,” 
 said Mr. Jones, without thought, to his socialistic friend, 
 Henderson. “ I — er — ah — that is — I am in charge of 
 a young lady.” 
 
 “ Who is having a tremendous flirtation with a flight 
 loot,” said Henderson pleasantly. “Nice boy, stony 
 broke ; said he'd had so many crashes one more does not 
 matter.” 
 
 Mr. Jones said it would not do at all, and looked 
 round for his firm's niece. 
 
 “From Scylla to Chary bdis,” he said unhappily. 
 “ Dear, dear ! ” 
 
 Henderson talked of the inequalities of riches. 
 Curiously, he brought up Mr. Rockfeller's name. 
 
 “Know a pal of his,” he said, “and the fellow's 
 fretting, fretting, mark you, Mr. Jones, because some 
 historical emeralds have not turned up for his wedding- 
 present to his wife. Got lost or something. Haul for 
 some thief, p'raps, to even up things a bit.” 
 
 Mr. Jones looked in the direction of the second-class 
 deck ; he smiled softly. Then he went below. 
 
MR. JONES IS CONSULTED BY THE FIRM 105 
 
 A jazz band was braying unmelodiously, and Gladys 
 Hartley and a youth of tender years were capering the 
 dance of the hour. Mr. Jones thought it all funny danc- 
 ing. Some people stopped short and kicked up their 
 feet behind, others rolled with exaggeration. He did 
 not care for the shapeless dresses, and considered Anna's 
 trim belted figure far superior to any of the fashionable 
 ladies. 
 
 Gladys Hartley smiled, dismissed her Flight Lieutenant 
 and sat beside Jones. Colonel Hume was tripping 
 clumsily along with a stout girl in pink. A pair flashed 
 down the room, dancing exquisitely , the girl in gold tissue, 
 an absurd emerald satin tail floating behind, her forehead 
 crossed by a band of diamonds. 
 
 How well they dance," said Mr. Jones enviously; 
 " but the lady, I fear, is theatrical." 
 
 “ She is quite a nice girl. I spoke to her yesterday." 
 Gladys' voice shook a little. " She hopes to rise quite 
 high in the profession. Oh ! " The dancers came past 
 and a pink ostrich-feather fan fell close to Gladys. 
 
 Peter stopped. Gladys Hartley handed the fan back to 
 Miss de Vere, smiling pleasantly. 
 
 “ If you're tired — " she said. “ It 'shot ; sit here, and 
 we'll have a lemon squash." 
 
 Mavis de Vere sat down and looked at Gladys for quite 
 a long time. 
 
 "Some people make you feel beasts," she said 
 thoughtfully. “ No, I won't dance again, Major Greer. 
 I'm tired — I'll talk to Miss Hartley." 
 
 “ Here's Colonel Hume," said Gladys. “ I ought to 
 dance with him." 
 
 Here Miss de Vere murmured that Hume looked that 
 solemn she'd like to take him jazzing, and as she noted 
 his shocked expression as he saw who Gladys' companion 
 was, Mavis whistled a little trill. 
 
 Mr. Jones, feeling that all was well, went to the smoking- 
 room. He sat there for a little until he felt sleepy, and 
 was going to bed when Henderson called him loudly. 
 
 “ Hi — Jones — a minute here." 
 
IRISH STEW 
 
 106 
 
 Henderson was supporting a youth who swayed, weak- 
 kneed, his mouth open, his expression idiotic. 
 
 “ Give me a hand. It's young Carmichael. We'll 
 slip him to his state room quietly. Stupid oaf." 
 
 Mr. Carmichael lurched forward, called Mr. Jones 
 “dear ol' bean," and fell on his neck. Here he lingered, 
 and as the little clerk staggered he slipped downwards, 
 clutching as he went, Henderson making ineffectual 
 dives from the outer circle, the American whom Mr. 
 Jones disliked springing forward to watch. 
 
 “Deah — old bean," said Carmichael, climbing to 
 his feet — “ ptomaine poisoning from bad cocktail. 
 Aw — I'll go." They assisted him off to a small state- 
 room, Mr. Jones bowing as Henderson thanked him for 
 his strength and helpfulness. 
 
 As they came out, the American was outside the door 
 lighting a cigarette. He looked sharply at them. 
 
 “That's a crook," whispered Henderson. “Night, 
 Jones, old boy." 
 
 “And my goodness, I've not been across to Anna," 
 said Mr. Jones ; “ dreadful oversight." 
 
 “ She'll forgive you," said Henderson. 
 
 “ She, yes," said Mr. Jones. “ But the firm — good- 
 night, Henderson." 
 
 He got back to his cabin and stared. He had left a 
 box on its end, and it was now flat. A short examina- 
 tion showed him that his cabin had been searched 
 thoroughly. 
 
 Mr. Jones thought things over — if he made a row they 
 would all know he was taking the emerald. No doubt 
 it was a plot between this creature Carmichael and the 
 American, Billing. Now that he came to think of it, 
 Carmichael's hands had clung curiously to him. 
 
 Mr. Jones bolted his door and slept ill. Next morn- 
 ing he saw the captain, a burly gentleman who had 
 given up trusting anyone, and who had heard the 
 story with reserve. 
 
 “ All I entreat, sir, is that you give me a little pro- 
 tection leaving the ship," said Mr. Jones. “To allow 
 
MR. JONES IS CONSULTED BY THE FIRM 107 
 
 me to wait, or to give me a couple of sailors. I believe 
 I am suspected/' 
 
 “ They have not got the stones ? ' snapped the 
 captain. “ Sending you — of course, one never knows 
 from looks." 
 
 Mr. Jones rose. “ I, sir, have killed a man," he 
 said coldly, “ in pursuit of my business." 
 
 “ I killed two hundred myself in pursuit o mine," 
 said the captain absently. “ Collision ; one can't count 
 that. Eh — well. I'll wireless to verify your story. Will 
 I have these men watched ? No, I won't. I sail a 
 liner. I don't deal in jewels. Give me the stones and it 's 
 another affair." 
 
 Mr. Jones moved towards the door hurriedly. 
 
 “ I regret, as I cannot verify your credentials, that that 
 is impossible," he said, going out. 
 
 “ Well — I'm " the Glorytania’s captain exploded 
 
 into helpless laughter while Mr. Jones strolled down the 
 deck, where he met his friend Henderson, to whom in his 
 excitement he confided. 
 
 “ But why should they search your cabin ? " Hender- 
 son asked. 
 
 “ Because they are fools," said Mr. Jones, looking at 
 the green sea and the white chum of the wash, “ Er 
 — because I might have jewels, as I travel for Mosenthals. 
 I have not ... of course." 
 
 Henderson coughed thoughtfully. 
 
 The little man went on to the second-class. He found 
 Anna his wife watching a game of deck cricket. A 
 sharp breeze was blowing and a gust caught her hat, 
 lifting it a little. Mr. Jones turned pale and grabbed 
 it wildly, ejaculating, “Take care, for God's sake." 
 
 “ It's the blamed thing's brim," said Anna. “ If I 
 might put on a sensible cap, Archibald " 
 
 Green the clergyman came moistly from his fallen 
 wicket. 
 
 “ You weren't looking at the ball at all," shrilled his 
 lady captain ; “ you were watching Mrs. Jones, Mr. 
 Green." 
 
io8 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 Mr. Jones looked admiringly at his wife. She was, he 
 considered, worth looking at. None of your floppy shape- 
 less women, but of fine presence, trimly corseted. 
 
 Next morning Mr. Jones grew nervous. The 
 Glorytania had made a record voyage, she was ahead of 
 time. The vast buildings of New York loomed out of a 
 troubled sky, and they threaded their way through the 
 thronged waterway. Mr. Jones' heart missed occa- 
 sional beats as they throbbed majestically to their berth. 
 The quay seemed to hum. He feared the ordeal of the 
 customs, repudiating pettishly Anna's idea of assuming 
 an American accent and saying “Yew can searrch me, 
 sirree," to the head official. 
 
 He left his luggage to look after itself and stood by 
 Anna at the side as they bore into the quay. Each 
 moment he expected to see Rockfeller's face loom out 
 of the excited throng. 
 
 In his nervousness he stood sideways, his eyes on the 
 flaring hatpin in his wife's hat. Someone near him 
 sighed sharply and struggled backwards for a moment. 
 The great gangways slid into place. Still no Rockfeller. 
 
 “ Customs this way, all boxes ready and open." 
 Mrs. Jones had engaged a man ; they moved forward into 
 the press. Next moment the unfortunate lady shrieked 
 aloud in anguish as hands plucked at her pin and, owing 
 to the steel chain, her hat came with it, the pins tearing 
 free and taking hair also. 
 
 “I'm scalped," wailed Mrs. Jones. “Archibald — 
 I'm scalped." 
 
 “ The emeralds ! Thieves ! " shrieked Mr. Jones. 
 “ Oh, you, captain ! " He turned to shake his fist at 
 Captain Graham and somehow was through the crowd in 
 pursuit of the base Mr. Green, who w T as wearing a panama 
 hat and an overcoat and pulling the pins from Anna's 
 hat, which he threw down. 
 
 “Thief — thief!" The astounded crowd opened. 
 Officials grabbed at nothing. Somehow little Mr. Jones 
 got through to a comparatively open space and close to 
 his prey. Leaping forward he grabbed but only reached 
 
MR. JONES IS CONSULTED BY THE FIRM 109 
 
 the panama hat. They were among the taxis and 
 waiting cars. 
 
 “ Hatless man ! Stop thief ! Stop Mr. Rockfeller s 
 jewels,” shrieked little Jones, flying on. 
 
 He saw a taxi move. He leapt at a huge Overland 
 driven by a black chauffeur. 
 
 “ Black Pearl, are you Rockfeller 's ? ” gasped the little 
 man, merely running on as the outraged darkie answered 
 volubly. 
 
 “Taxi!” Mr. Jones pulled out a five-pound note. 
 “ Auto-taxi — after that hatless man, after him ! ” 
 
 Five pounds put in the hands of an engaged taxi, the 
 driver shot on his clutch ; but where in all wide New York 
 was he to find the other car ? 
 
 He followed two or three ; darted here and there and 
 pulled up in Broadway. 
 
 “ The devil a bit of use to be wandtheren like this,” 
 the driver said. “ I have lost the trail.” 
 
 Mr. Jones stood on the step. “ A hatless man, 
 driver,” he said, ‘'has stolen forty thousand pounds — 
 run away with it.” 
 
 To this the Irish driver replied that thim ship thieves'd 
 stheal a gold eye out of yer head, and suggested the 
 police. 
 
 “ I seen him go,” said the man. “ I must get back, 
 annyways.” 
 
 And then the great God Chance played a card. In 
 the great throbbing city, alone, not even knowing a 
 street, little Mr. Jones stood indeterminate. Police ? 
 He would be laughed at. To face Rockfeller with this 
 fairy tale of hatpins . . . And standing alone and hopeless 
 he saw Green come out of a store with a new hat on his 
 head. Mr. Jones noticed that an overcoat covered the 
 parson's uniform. 
 
 Mr. Jones dived across the street ; the younger man 
 saw him and ran, turning sharp; the little clerk following 
 doggedly. They left the busy streets, turning into dull 
 byways where great evil houses towered. Hives full, 
 not of bees, but wasps, where life was but a knife thrust! 
 
no 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 Mr. Jones was done, his breath came in gasps, his knees 
 shook and he stood at a comer, done. But the comer 
 gave a vista of a dark street, each house with its fire- 
 escape, the sky a mere vision. Standing utterly ex- 
 hausted, he saw Green slow down, stand and wipe his 
 face and look round. With a thrill Mr. Jones realised 
 that the pursued was as done as the pursuer. He 
 shrank back, hidden from view by a jutting pile of barrels 
 outside a wine vault . 
 
 The man Green waited — then he went up some dirty 
 steps, opened a door and disappeared. Mr. Jones 
 counted the houses carefully. A few minutes later a 
 se;ond man hurried up and opened the same door. 
 With a groan the little man recognised Henderson. 
 
 He was unarmed, alone, but he walked on calmly, 
 meaning to get into the house somehow. He went 
 cautiously. Lean faces peered at him, wondering what 
 his game was ; at the hat in his hand and his insignificant 
 look of respectability. 
 
 Mr. Jones counted. He came to the grimy steps and 
 found the blistered door ajar. He went up the stairs, 
 his feet making no sound in his deck shoes. 
 
 Stairs interminable, everlasting, and he did not dare 
 to use the lift. Street doors with silence behind them, 
 and at last at the very top he heard voices, and 
 listened. 
 
 “ I only tumbled to it at the last when I saw that 
 cockney fool with his eyes glued to the woman's hat. 
 Lawdee ! we searched her cabin twice. Mosenthals were 
 afraid. And then I seen that one pin was chained, an' 
 that was enough. Got the wax off. Gee — here's a 
 stone ! " 
 
 Mr. Jones felt desperate. He knew perfectly well 
 that if these men came out he would be killed. The 
 stone steps led to a trap door to the roof. He went 
 on up silently, with some idea that he might be able to 
 signal, and found himself dizzily high on a flat roof, 
 with a small open skylight beneath him, through which 
 he could look down. He peered, keeping back. 
 
MR. JONES IS CONSULTED BY THE FIRM in 
 
 Henderson and Green were bending over one emerald ; it 
 lay green and glorious on a dirty table, the wax making 
 a little pool near it, the pin on the floor. 
 
 “ Well get Stiff to cut this up at once/' said Hender- 
 son. “ Get him, Rev. — get a move on/ 1 
 
 “ Take two to get him sober/' grunted Green. “ You 
 come too — bring some soda-water." 
 
 Mr. Jones heard a click, the emerald lay alone on the 
 grimy boards and he had perhaps ten minutes. The 
 skylight was narrow ; he could see that the window of 
 the room was open and the iron fire-escape was close 
 to it. 
 
 With a gulp he lowered himself from the roof. 
 
 “ I have always had a bad head," said little Mr. 
 Jones. He went backwards, swung in sickening terror 
 at the window and wcs in the room. Next moment 
 Mosenthals' emerald was in his pocket, and the 
 pin stuck in his hat. 
 
 He left the panama on the table, a foolish thing to do, 
 and said a reverent little prayer as he caught at the fire 
 escape. 
 
 Step by step the dizzy heights passed until he was near 
 the evil street and looking, saw a man coming quickly 
 along. 
 
 "Pretend to be workman," said Mr. Jones faintly, 
 as he pulled off his coat. He was afraid of the stranger. 
 
 A lean dark young fellow hurried along — other people 
 had passed but not looked up. 
 
 “ Hello ! " he said as Mr. Jones began to ascend. 
 
 “Troying the escape, sor," said Mr. Jones in stage 
 Irish. " All the escapes along here — siree." 
 
 “ Damn Irish, you'll try none right, " snapped the man, 
 going in. 
 
 Then Mr. Jones dropped off ; he scuttled, not knowing 
 his way. He turned and twisted until he found a viperish 
 gutter boy and asked for a big street. 
 
 “ See ! " said Mr. Jones, “ a shilling to get me to the 
 trains or trams." 
 
 The gutter rat weighed the chances of earning a shilling 
 
112 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 or leading the stranger to be robbed. Decided that Mr. 
 Jones did not look worth robbing, dirty and coatless as 
 he was, and demanded a dollar. 
 
 “That is four shillings. See when I get there/' said 
 Mr. Jones wisely; “if I have it over my tram fare I 
 might." 
 
 The rat led on until Mr. Jones heard the roar of the 
 elevated and the whine of trams, but as he hurried 
 towards the traffic he heard the sound of running feet. 
 He flung two shillings to the rat and ran himself. 
 
 “ Here he is," shrilled the child, tearing back to get 
 largesse from the followers if he could. “ Ye're a 
 crook, sure." 
 
 Little Jones ran with tears in his eyes. He was out in 
 the humming Bowery, the elevated blotting out the sky, 
 the whole place seething as if seme great iron cauldron 
 boiled up prosperity and rush, and he tore towards a 
 big policeman who guarded a crossing, the gutter-snipe 
 hanging about. 
 
 “ Officer," yelled Mr. * Jones, “ put me into a tram. 
 Don't let them get me." 
 
 The astounded policeman felt himself grabbed by the 
 coatless little man who poured out incoherent emana- 
 tions, and next moment was hailed by three well-dressed 
 but breathless youths who were evidently in pursuit. 
 One wore a new hat. 
 
 “ They'll shoot me," said little Jones, getting behind 
 the policeman, “ they'll take my body. Officer, I've 
 Rockfeller's emeralds on me. Don't give them my body. 
 Don't ! " He spun with the man. 
 
 Here the policeman remarking that he'd give him 
 something if he didn't let go, the little man spun so as 
 to keep a shield between him and the three wolfish, 
 snarling faces. 
 
 “ Sir, he's our brother, a looner," drawled Green. 
 “ Say, hand him over. He got clear just now/' 
 
 Green's hand went to his hip pocket, and the policeman 
 paused. 
 
 “ Officer, for God's sake, take me dead or alive to 
 
MR. JONES IS CONSULTED BY THE FIRM 113 
 
 Mr. Samuel P. Rockfeller. I've got his emeralds. Keep 
 my corpse." 
 
 A revolver spat. Mr. Jones felt a sting in his arm 
 and a voice shrieked " Archibald." A second voice, coldly 
 grim, said, "That hanged little ass — drunk." 
 
 He saw Mr. Rockfeller raging coldly. A breakdown 
 had made him late, and he had at Anna Jones' entreaty 
 driven blindly round New York. Rockfeller had sent 
 
 I a blighting cable to Mosenthals in which he cursed all 
 fools. 
 
 A second policeman bore down on the group ; the 
 wolfish faces melted into the crowd, and Mrs. Jones 
 clasped her dirty husband. 
 
 "Archibald ! All alone out in that great city," she 
 said. 
 
 "My dear, I know the principal names," said Mr. 
 Jones meekly. " Oh dear, I am exhausted. This is 
 the Bowery, it has trams." 
 
 The policeman wished to know if he was to be made a 
 mulberry-bush for any lunatic who wished to take up 
 the game in the Bowery, and was appeased by Rock- 
 feller explaining savagely that the man had lost jewels 
 which he was in charge of, so must be excused. 
 
 " I followed the thieves," said Mr. Jones, "to their 
 house." 
 
 " Can you give any account of the house, the position ? 
 It had a fire-escape and a skylight — that in New York 
 is strange," said Rockfeller bitingly. "You shall tell 
 the police." 
 
 He pulled out a card and the members of the force 
 thawed. The large man whom Mr. Jones had clung to 
 was of opinion that his life had been risked, though he 
 melted a little as he heard some of the story. 
 
 He remarked tersely that rabbits should not pursue 
 rats ; took all their addresses and chivied the crowd 
 away. 
 
 The big auto glided along, cleaving the roaring traffic, 
 sliding, twisting, the huge power of her scarcely exerted, 
 until they slipped into the quiet city where rich men live. 
 
IRISH STEW 
 
 114 
 
 Mr. Jones gasped as he was ushered into a cool hall, 
 where slim, dim marble nymphs held silver fountains, 
 and huge ice blocks were hidden by massed ferns. There 
 was a faint smell of paint, and the aggressive newness 
 of a recently done-up house. 
 
 Mr Jones had sat silent in the car ; he felt weak and 
 dizzy, and his heart was thumping unevenly. He went 
 meekly into the hall, and as meekly listened to an order 
 for cocktails. 
 
 “ Not taking alcoholic drinks/' he said. “ But any- 
 thing mild, sir.” 
 
 Rockfeller rang up a couple of numbers and came 
 back. Mr. Jones was sipping something lemony and 
 spicy and feeling a glow of strength. 
 
 “ Now then,” snapped the multi-millionaire. “ Par- 
 ticulars of your absurd pursuit.” 
 
 Little Mr. Jones drew himself up. 
 
 “ Having taken an engaged taxi, sir, and found the 
 hatless apache, Green, I ran after him, cunningly secreted 
 myself and entered the 'ou — Aouse.” 
 
 At this Rockfeller delivered his opinion as to rank 
 folly, and drank a cocktail himself. 
 
 “ * And I trust this stone is not injured,” said Mr. 
 Jones, pulling it out. 
 
 “ You — you've got my emeralds ? ” howled Rockfeller. 
 
 “ But what else did I go after the thieves for ? ” said 
 Mr. Jones simply, removing the hatpin. 
 
 “ Go on — tell it — go on.” Rockfeller held the 
 great green wonders in his hands and the others crowded 
 round. “ Looked through a skylight — go on — down 
 the fire-escape — got the stones. Go on — go on. Gee ! 
 what a man.” 
 
 “And returned the hat,” said Mr. Jones, “so they 
 knew who had unlaired them.” 
 
 “ But twenty thousand — Christopher Columbus ! 
 You're the eighth wonder,” gasped Rockfeller, gripping 
 Mr. Jones' hands. “ You atom — you creature — yet ” 
 
 “ Archibald never fails Mosenthals,” said Anna Jones, 
 speaking calmly, rubbing her very sore head. 
 
MR. JONES IS CONSULTED BY THE FIRM 115 
 
 “ Fire-escapes — a gang of crooks. His life in his 
 hands. Hi, there, send my secretary. Fm sending a 
 cable. What I should like to see,” said Rockfeller, “ is 
 that crook's face when he reads to-morrow's papers. 
 Lord ! to be done by you” 
 
 Mr. Jones sipped his soothing cocktail feeling its glow. 
 He suspected alcohol and said so. 
 
 “Lemons,” said Rockfeller. “American variety.” 
 
 He wrote a cable. 
 
 “ Tell the detectives your Mr. Jones single-handed 
 recovered the emeralds. And you'll all dine here — no, not 
 in the cable, Creeds.” 
 
 Gladys Hartley, who had hovered near the tired little 
 man, looked round uneasily. 
 
 “ Major Greer? ” she said. “ We missed him rushing 
 off the ship.” 
 
 “ He was seeing to Miss de Vere's things,” said Anna 
 Jones, “ and wrangling with the customs for her, I 
 think.” 
 
 Miss Hartley drew herself up. “ Then I shall be 
 delighted to dine,” she said. “ I do not join my friends 
 until to-morrow.” 
 
 Little Mr. Jones felt quite pleased that he had not 
 been obliged to make this statement. He looked ap- 
 provingly at his wife. 
 
 “ Major Greer is so popular,” he said feebly, sipping 
 his iced drink. “ Very pungent lemons, Mr. Rock- 
 feller,” he added, “ very.” 
 
 The lemonade which Mr. Jones drank for dinner was 
 also pungent and sparkled, but the little man wanted 
 reviving. 
 
 When Mr. Samuel Mosenthal read the first cable he 
 swore and rushed to his brother. 
 
 “ See here — you ! ! ! ” he gulped. 
 
 Mr. Amos read, with deliberation : 
 
 “ ‘ Your Mr. Jones has lost my emeralds. Idiotic hat- 
 pin stolen. Necklace useless. Cannot forgive not 
 sending a man not a rabbit. Rockfeller.' ” 
 
xi6 IRISH STEW 
 
 Mr. Amos Mosenthal put the cable down and drew a 
 devil sadly. 
 
 " Our sums have gone astray/' he said. " Poor Jones." 
 
 " This/' said Mr. Samuel, "will be alean year, brother." 
 
 Mr. Amos opened the second cable later on. 
 
 He read it — he looked at his brother. 
 
 "They've probably got Jones in for theft," sneered 
 Samuel. 
 
 Mr. Amos in silence handed across the cable : " Your 
 Mr. Jones alone followed thieves recovered stones par- 
 ticulars follow." 
 
 Then came one from Mr. Jones : " Report safe de- 
 livery to Rockfeller. Jones." 
 
 " Samuel," said Mr. Amos Mosenthal, "why cannot 
 one 'phone New York? I want to speak to Napoleon 
 Jones. I'll send a wireless," said Mr. Amos, putting 
 on his brother's hat and walking out, " and I'll tell Bee 
 Hanley." 
 
 Mr. Samuel, bewildered, picked up the two cables. 
 
MR. JONES HAS ANOTHER 
 ADVENTURE 
 
MR. JONES HAS ANOTHER 
 ADVENTURE 
 
 M R. ARCHIBALD JONES, clerk to Mosen- 
 thals, stayed on in New York as Mr. Samuel 
 P. Rockfeller's guest — the millionaire could 
 not do too much for him. He would sit 
 with a puzzled expression on his face, looking at Mr. 
 Jones, and say “ Wonderful ! " 
 
 Detectives interviewed the little man, who told them 
 he considered London's police system far more efficient. 
 
 “ I assure you," said Mr. Jones to a smiling youth 
 whose reputation was so great that crooks had been 
 heard to say that Clem Jordan could go among the 
 rattlers as one of themselves and, 'cept he wouldn't bite, 
 never be found out, “ I assure you, Mr. C. Jordan, 
 that in our London, shooting episodes in the streets 
 would be quite impossible. And the policemen are 
 civil. Kept to put women across the streets, you say ? 
 Well, there is London," said Mr. Jones proudly. 
 “ In England if thieves found that they had been out- 
 witted by one more astute than themselves " — Clem 
 Jordan sank quite limply into a chair, muttering, 
 “ Highball Jim — Verdant Sam " — “ they, "said Mr. Jones, 
 “ would have gone away and hidden." 
 
 “ Poker's our game," said Jordan drily ; “ they bluffed. 
 If they could have got you even dead they would also 
 have got Rockfeller's emeralds. They have knives which 
 don't leave a drop of blood ; a prod — you go down. 
 ‘ Our mad brother's fainted. We take his corpse ' — see ? 
 that was their idea." 
 
120 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 " I saw. Most unpleasant and most transparent/' 
 said Mr. Jones. “ But it should be impossible. Give 
 me London Mr. Jordan, sir — law and order, and thieves 
 kept in safe places." 
 
 The future Mrs. Rockfeller, a lovely fragile blonde, 
 also thanked Mr. Jones for rescuing her jewels. He 
 was asked to lunch, and told her how to cultivate sweet- 
 peas. 
 
 "Just too cunning you are, Mr. Jones," she said, 
 “ hiding your desperate courage and talking of sweet- 
 peas." 
 
 " I am so much more at home with the sweet-peas," 
 said Mr. Jones humbly. 
 
 Rockfeller put the little man in the hands of a young 
 clerk who was given a holiday for the occasion. Mrs. 
 Jones, exceedingly ill at ease in an hotel where Mr. 
 Rockfeller had installed them, and where every service 
 cost money, found a kindred spirit in Mrs. B. Pinker 
 and took to seeing shops. She was led through vast 
 department stores with their lounges and baby creches 
 and big children's playgrounds, and wondered what 
 London would think of them. 
 
 “ Myself, I think shops should be shops without the 
 Serpentine enclosed," she said dubiously, looking at 
 some children shovelling at a heap of sand. 
 
 Mrs. Jones priced and took notes of almost everything 
 in the provision department, and she stared wistfully 
 at the fruit. Golden oranges, scarlet tomatoes, grapes, 
 baskets of peaches at prices she had never dreamt of. 
 One could take a dozen late peaches home and not 
 count it an extravagance. 
 
 James B. Pinker on request took Mr. Jones round 
 New York. To the Bowery, to China Town, where the 
 Orientals padded in their woven hemp slippers ; to the 
 Italian quarter, to the seemingly endless nest of cities 
 which make New York. They saw Maddison Gardens 
 and the golden statue of Flora ; they travelled to Atlantic 
 city to be swallowed in the noise on the beach ; they 
 dined in strange little restaurants, or chopped up quick 
 
, MR. JONES HAS ANOTHER ADVENTURE 12 1 
 
 lunches, Mr. Jones getting violent indigestion because 
 he considered it his duty to swallow the sandwiches 
 almost whole as if in violent haste. 
 
 During the rush of sightseeing, Mr. Jones lost sight of 
 
 I Gladys Hartley and her admirers. But he reported 
 favourably in a long letter to Mr. Amos Mosenthal. He 
 had pledged himself to try to break up the bond between 
 the firm's niece and a charming but impecunious Major 
 
 I Greer, and advance the cause of Colonel Hume, who was 
 covered with decorations which he had not won on the 
 field of battle. Mavis de Vere, a pretty musical 
 comedy star, was playing in New York and sent Mr. 
 Jones tickets for her show. At it he saw Major Greer 
 in a box and in a bad humour. Having flung an 
 enormous bouquet on to the stage, Peter Greer spied 
 Mr. Jones and beckoned to him. 
 
 The little clerk, again feeling Judas-like, poked his 
 way to the box. 
 
 “Fed up with America," grunted Greer. “Miss 
 Hartley's pals asked me down to Newport — they've a 
 palace there, but I — don't care for it. You kind of feel 
 they want to enclose bits of the sea, those people. And 
 there's a — a — a — fellow — Gip C. Hockley, two hundred 
 horse-power racer, private aeroplane, two steam yachts, 
 and no digestion — that kind of chap." Major Greer 
 smoked moodily, being hidden in the back of the box. 
 “Hume's got a back seat, anyhow," he burst out, 
 “ that's one thing — and the flying loot." 
 
 Mr. Jones began to think he had better go to Newport. 
 From this outburst he gathered that G. C. Hockley 
 admired the firm's niece. 
 
 “ Mavis de Vere," he began — “ Major — you an 'er — 
 her " 
 
 “ She's a good sort," snapped Peter. “ Lets me take 
 her out and grouse to her. Who's always shadowing 
 you, Jones ? Saw a chap pow-wowing at the box-office — 
 must get a seat, gave a card — management curled up 
 and the chap sat near you." 
 
 “ Following me ? " said Mr. Jones in amazement — 
 
122 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 and then he remembered some incidents: a grey- 
 
 haired man whom he had seen six times in a day ; a 
 woman who had travelled twice with him in the elevated. 
 
 " No doubt he is Green and Henderson. Slippy 
 Something and Verdured Sam,” he said. “ Jordan 
 ^warned me — they . . . But I carry nothing of value save 
 the pearl pin given me by Mr. Rockfeller.” 
 
 " He's eyeing you now,” said Greer. ” The others are 
 jazzing to-night. I ran up here to see Mavis. She's 
 kind, anyhow.” 
 
 Mr. Jones slept fitfully in the hot bedroom in his hotel 
 — all the labour-saving devices irritating him more than 
 usual — then he 'phoned to Greenlawn, where the 
 Mosenthals’ niece was staying, and tooktrainto Newport. 
 
 The splendour of the millionaire's sea-palaces inter- 
 ested him. Marble pillars, great ball-rooms, verandahs 
 clad in verdure. A glorious sea knocked apologetically 
 on the beach and Mr. Jones felt that anyone or anything 
 not belonging to New York society intruded. Huge 
 automobiles purred past him, coloured servants eyed 
 him. 
 
 He wandered through a fretted iron gate, and rang a 
 bell, but before he was answered, Gladys ran from a 
 verandah. 
 
 ” Oh, Mr. Jones, I'm so glad you've come,'* she said. 
 
 Gladys Hartley had grown thin. Her eyes looked 
 very big and her mouth trembled when she did not make 
 it a contemptuous line. 
 
 “ It's lovely here, but I — like England,” she said. 
 She took Mr. Jones on to a verandah with a huge vine 
 growing on it. She called imperiously for fruit and 
 sandwiches. 
 
 Mr. Jones felt the cool breath from huge blocks of 
 ice poised on fine gratings so that they might not drip. 
 
 A servant brought out a tray with dishes of peaches 
 and grapes and melons ; on a second cocktails, grape 
 fruit and ice ; a third carried sandwiches. 
 
 ” We'll lunch here," said Gladys. “They are all 
 swimming at Bailey's beach, but I got your message. 
 
MR. JONES HAS ANOTHER ADVENTURE 123 
 
 They'll lunch there in bathing-dresses with servants to 
 wait on them." 
 
 " It's luxurious," said Mr. Jones, biting a peach. 
 " The wood lice, Miss Gladys, ate the only two of them 
 which matured for me last year." 
 
 "Too luxurious," said Gladys. "The peaches are 
 woolly from riches ; the fruit comes in sacks or chests, 
 there is always a cart calling with something. We 
 probably shan't be here half an hour before they change 
 the ice and the flowers, and bring electric stoves if it's 
 chilly. One must spend to live, apparently. The season 
 is nearly over, but to-morrow there is a freak lunch 
 at Mrs. van Dermot's, and goodness knows what it may 
 be. All our food flowers, perhaps. We had a fruit one 
 yesterday, starting with grapes, only they were caviare- 
 fancy the useless trouble of it, poking caviare into grape- 
 skins — our oranges were oysters, our peaches cold chicken, 
 and so on. It wearies me." 
 
 She nibbled a sandwich, breaking off pieces to give to 
 a snuffling Pekinese. 
 
 "That thing is priceless," she said. "It has its 
 own electric carriage driven by a chauffeur, and sleeps 
 in a four-post bed in a dog bedroom. Booh!" said 
 Gladys, " and if I stay here — ■ — " 
 
 " Stay here ! " said little Mr. Jones. 
 
 "Stay here chained," said Gladys, "I might — oh, 
 here is the possible padlock. Mr. Hockley — Mr. Jones." 
 
 A flabby-looking youth sauntered in, saying he had 
 left the bathers swimming about. He eyed Mr. Jones 
 as a spider might look at a fly not worth eating, and ate 
 some sandwiches languidly, saying caviare was death 
 to him. 
 
 " If you want lunch, order some," said Gladys ; " this 
 is for Mr. Jones." 
 
 Gip Hockley peered at the little clerk. 
 
 " Jones ? " he said. " Weren't you in the papers, 
 Jones ? Got bluffed by some crooks an' ran them to 
 earth with a policeman. What " 
 
 This was fame. Mr. Jones coloured and said, " No, 
 
124 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 sir, quite alone/’ in huffy tones ; " the policeman came 
 later.” 
 
 " Generally do,” murmured Gip Hockley, looking at 
 Gladys. “ Wonderful nation, the Enghsh. Just do 
 things and say things. Come for a drive ? ” — this to 
 Gladys. 
 
 “I am entertaining Mr. Jones,” said Gladys coldly. 
 “ We talk of — sweet-peas.” 
 
 Mr. Hockley turned his back on Mr. Jones and took 
 out his cigarette case. 
 
 “ Of course if he’s taking an order ” he murmured 
 
 slightingly. 
 
 Gladys got up — she walked along the marble verandah, 
 taking Mr. Jones on to a lounge where the statues made 
 him blush. The walls were hung with old masters painted 
 in Paris for credulous millionaires ; if one wanted to get 
 space one touched a table and it sank into the floor. 
 
 " Aladdin’s palace,” said Gladys. “ Mr. Jones, would 
 you like to be very, very rich ? ” 
 
 “ A garden,” said Mr. Jones, “ is my great joy, and if 
 I were very rich a Scotch gardener would grow every- 
 thing and I should be afraid to touch the flowers.” 
 
 " Substitute everything in life for flowers and you’ve 
 got it,” said Gladys. ff Pull at a golden bobbin and the 
 latch goes up. Hike planning things, saving to buy them. 
 Have you seen Major Greer lately, Mr. Jones ? ” 
 
 " Last night, in very bad spirits,” said Mr. Jones — 
 Gladys looked up — “ at the theatre,” added the little 
 man, remembering Mosenthals. “ I go home in three 
 days, Miss Gladys.” 
 
 " So does Major Greer,” said Gladys, “ and I — I 
 think America would be too stuffy in winter — the girls 
 look like hot-house flowers.” 
 
 Mr. Jones felt uneasy. He had promised to further 
 the suit of the excellent youth called Hume — this 
 American was quite another affair. He tried in his mind 
 to concoct a lucid cable, but failed, and sat on in uneasy 
 silence. There was something about the flabby white 
 man which he did not like. Gip Hockley would have 
 
MR. JONES HAS ANOTHER ADVENTURE 125 
 
 done better if he had wasted civility on the little 
 clerk. 
 
 Automobiles purred outside, and Mr. Jones rose 
 nervously. 
 
 “ I am dining with Major Greer to-night/' he said. 
 “ A slap-up dinner, Miss Gladys, at Delmonico's. Very 
 kind of him." 
 
 Miss Hartley yawned elaborately as she hoped Mr. 
 Jones would not be in the way — of Miss de Vere. 
 
 They went back along the verandah, rousing Gip 
 Hockley from slumber. A great bunch of carnations 
 had been brought to him, which he handed to Gladys, 
 who immediately laid them down. 
 
 “ They were fastened together with a gold clasp," she 
 said as she walked on, “ real gold set with diamonds. 
 Oh, dear — Riches ! " 
 
 Little Mr. Jones blinked in the sunshine. He thought 
 the villas oppressively ornate ; even the beach looked 
 exclusive. He made his way to the station and took 
 the long journey to New York, where Pinker met him. 
 Mr. Jones noticed that he was not often left alone. 
 
 Pinker was dining with them that evening. 
 
 Mr. Jones was direct, but discreet. He spoke of New- 
 port, and he took ten minutes to work the conversation 
 round to Gip Hockley. 
 
 “That waster," said Pinker. “Some — hog — Mr. 
 Jones. Catch of the season, an' God help her that 
 catches him." 
 
 “He had a dissipated appearance," said Mr. Jones. 
 “ He was almost rude to me." 
 
 “ Guess you contaminated the air he breathed, in his 
 opinion," said Pinker. “ Prize rotter, Jones, he is. Ask 
 any of the stage lot — they know." 
 
 Mr. Jones had just time before dinner to drive to 
 Mavis de Vere's. He found the pretty actress in, and 
 plunged into his story. 
 
 Mavis de Vere listened in silence. 
 
 “Miss Hartley was nice to me," she said. “And 
 I'd rather see her dead, Mr. Jones, than married to Gip. 
 
126 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 I know him. For the rest, Mr. S. Mosenthal arranged 
 matters with me just to encourage Peter. We're only 
 friends — I've a husband in London, and one I like some, 
 too. You undo what you've done now before it's too 
 late." 
 
 Mr. Jones rushed off to dress. He had slightly shabby 
 dress clothes, but Mrs. Jones was sure an overcoat was 
 a necessity, and his was a mere mackintosh. She got 
 to the 'phone to speak to Pinker, who offered to lend his 
 and send it round. 
 
 It was a neat, light overcoat, just the thing, Mr. Jones 
 said, as he admired himself in the glass. 
 
 He hurried, and was much too early at the 
 great restaurant. 
 
 A lean, obliging man bustled him into a large room, 
 and took his coat : “ 660," he said. Mr. Jones thanked 
 him nervously, saw an expectant hand and tipped dis- 
 creetly. He felt the place must be lived up to. 
 
 The great restaurant was cooled by blocks of ice, 
 but the air quivered with light and the babel of tongues. 
 The three men had a little table in a corner, a bottle 
 in a pail of ice beside it. 
 
 Half-way through dinner, Pinker spied a friend, a 
 very vivacious friend, dining close by. Mr. Jones had 
 been persuaded to drink champagne. The light and 
 the noise, the sense of luxuries and Pol Roger combined 
 to unbalance him. 
 
 " See that man over there ? " said Pinker, pointing 
 to a smallish man sitting near them. “ That's Francis 
 Luckton, biggest 'tec in the world, they say. Up to 
 something, of course, an' p'raps half the waiters 'tecs 
 watching him. He's dining with a Russian Prince to- 
 night." 
 
 “ He has got a cruel face," said Mr. Jones thought- 
 fully. At this point Pinker went to take coffee with his 
 friend. Mr. Jones drank something green and innocent- 
 looking, hearing it was cream of peppermints. “ Creme 
 de menthe meaning that," he said, and leant across 
 the table. 
 
MR. JONES HAS ANOTHER ADVENTURE 127 
 
 " Major Greer/' he said, "‘lam employed by Mosen- 
 thals. I owe a duty to them, but I think human 'ar — 
 Aearts should exonerate me, especially with Gip P. 
 Hockley in the case." 
 
 Peter was looking thoughtfully at the empty 
 champagne bottle. 
 
 " An' I'm a Judas," said little Mr. Jones. " A Judas 
 wot 'as made a muddle, Major." 
 
 Peter looked at the liqueurs. 
 
 Little Jones did not notice. He plunged into the 
 story ; he told of his idea. 
 
 " I am being false to Mosenthals," he whimpered, 
 " but this American — Major, get her out of it before she 
 takes him." 
 
 Peter Greer upset the ice-bucket as he caught the little 
 man's hands. 
 
 " You — think she cares ? " he said. 
 
 " Oh, my goodness, she wouldn't be so snappy if she 
 didn't," said Mr. Jones, showing a shrewd knowledge 
 of human nature. " You should see Anna if I pays 
 attentions! Cayenne ain't in it." And the little man 
 looked wise. 
 
 "The trains take hours," said Peter, " but I can get 
 down from the aerodrome. Will you come, Jones, and 
 help me out ? " 
 
 "Anna has always forbidden me to go to Hendon," 
 said Mr. Jones. " Yes, fly there, Major, an' I'll take 
 the blame." 
 
 Peter's expression repaid him ; the boy forgot 
 everything except his own absorbing thoughts. The 
 restaurant was hot, they were going to a theatre, and Mr. 
 Jones decided to stroll outside to get cool. He asked how 
 much more he was to give for his coat and hat, and he 
 got up while a raptly absent Peter settled the bill. 
 Pinker coming back they had another liqueur. 
 
 " Little Jones gone out for some fresh air," said Peter. 
 
 " You've never let him go out alone? " said Pinker. 
 " One of us watches him all the time. Those two crooks 
 wrote to say they'd knife him." 
 
128 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 Mr. Jones, walking proudly, admiring everything, went 
 for his coat. He was a little dizzy, and the man was 
 engaged with a youth who had mislaid his check. Now 
 690 and 660 look very like. Mr. Jones consulted the 
 check, laid it down with a further tip, and said, " This is 
 mine.” The attendant glanced casually. 
 
 Mr. Jones put the coat on. He thought again that it 
 looked well, and strolled out into the great thoroughfare. 
 Giant signs winked at him incessantly, motors purred, 
 he could hear the roar of the elevated in the distance. 
 It had been raining and the pavement glimmered like 
 watered silk. 
 
 A man slipped out of the restaurant looking at Mr. 
 Jones' coat, noting that a black thread hung between the 
 shoulders. 
 
 " Fine night,” he said. 
 
 Mr. Jones nodded, but did not answer. He was 
 admiring the hugeness of New York. Even its traffic 
 seemed mighty. He walked on for a few steps, feeling 
 his face cool, and a cab drew up at the sidewalk. 
 
 Someone hailed him nasally. " Hi, sir, air yew a 
 doctor? A lady's fainted.” 
 
 " I have some slight knowledge of first aid,” said Mr. 
 Jones importantly. " For a swoon — I should say 
 smelling-salts, or a door- key if convenient.” 
 
 He thought he heard a whisper of " Bluff.” 
 
 " If you'd look to this, sir — it's my sister.” 
 
 " Smelling-salts,” said Mr. Jones, " and lay her flat.” 
 He came nearer the cab, looking in. 
 
 A woman lay rigid in a swoon. 
 
 ‘'The nearest chemist,” said Mr. Jones. "Run to 
 him. Try feathers.” He was impelled into the cab — 
 the swooning lady's hands covered his mouth, a cold 
 circle of steel pressed the nape of his neck. 
 
 " Caught, and not a word ! You, Linkoff,” whispered 
 a voice, " don't speak.” 
 
 The cab swooped out into the wet road. Mr. Jones 
 found himself looking at the reflections, at the gliding 
 cars, the winking signs. 
 
MR. JONES HAS ANOTHER ADVENTURE 129 
 
 " Will you kindly set me down ? " he said, showing no 
 nervousness. 
 
 " Quiet — Linkoff." 
 
 The supposed invalid used one hand to discard a hat 
 and veil, the other held the revolver to Mr. Jones' neck ; 
 the man who had pushed little Jones into the cab held 
 another revolver. 
 
 “ Oh, do be careful, those things might go off, though 
 er — if it's mental, sir, of course they are not loaded." 
 The man's laugh made Mr. Jones shiver. 
 
 “ What's the use of bluffing us, Linkoff ? " he said 
 savagely. 
 
 “ My name is Jones," said the little man, “ and 1 am 
 not a medical man. Kindly drive me to my hotel " — 
 he gave the name — “ at once." 
 
 Mr. Jones felt one must humour lunatics. 
 
 “ Your name is Jones or Harris or Smith or — Gustav 
 Linkoff — safely caught. No, don't move, the chauffeur 
 won't stop if he hears a gun go off, and you'll be dead ; 
 but given that list we let you go. It gives us a chance 
 to escape you — you fiend." 
 
 “ Lunatics," thought Mr. Jones, “ have very unpleasant 
 voices." 
 
 “ It is most distressing," Mr. Jones sighed. “ Kindly 
 put me down. I sympathise with whatever troubles 
 you, but my friends are waiting. I am going to a 
 theatre." 
 
 The man opposite said, “ Or to Hades," gloomily ; the 
 cab went on, they darted through mean streets, huge 
 houses frowning bleakly, 
 
 “ I must really ask you to put me down," said Mr, 
 Jones. “ Dear me, I am always coming in for adven- 
 tures." 
 
 “They should scarcely trouble you," the erstwhile 
 woman sneered. “ A man with your nerve. Come, 
 the list, and we'll send you back — now — sure." 
 
 " If you are trying to blackmail Mosenthals, I am 
 adamant," said Mr. Jones firmly. “The firm relies 
 on me." 
 
 E 
 
130 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 " What prate has this worm of Jones and Mosenthals ? " 
 sneered the man, moving his revolver a little. " So 
 great a fox, a w T easel, a vampire sucking mens blood. 
 Max marked you, but we thought you were at least a 
 man — and of a man's stature." 
 
 " You are exceedingly rude," said Mr. Jones huffily, 
 "but, er — of course — New York is badly managed," 
 he said. "Look here" — he tried diplomacy — "my 
 friend has that list — of — er — er jewels — when we return 
 to the restaurant." 
 
 " It will be with you whether you ever use your throat 
 to swallow food again. Now go quietly and in silence." 
 
 The cab stopped. Mr. Jones, the cold rim pressing 
 his neck, was bustled across a sidewalk. A gloomy, 
 dirty door opened, he w r as whirled into a lift which shot 
 upwards at a sickening rate. 
 
 As he murmured of danger, it slackened ; he was pushed 
 across an unw T ashed stone landing and into a small room : 
 a green blind drawn down, a huge centre lamp swinging 
 over a table clamped to the floor. 
 
 " Got him. Hey, Henri, Ladisloff, Triki — v r e have 
 got him — this Linkoff." 
 
 " If you will telephone to my wife," said Mr. Jones, 
 " she will verify my credentials. You'll all be sorry 
 for this." 
 
 He was too dazed to feel alarmed as he was thrust 
 into a chair. Ten men fixed passionate, contemptuous 
 eyes on him, five hands held revolvers and five knives 
 which gleamed bluely. 
 
 " You have tracked us. " The big man they called Henri 
 broke into a strange language which rang musically. 
 
 " My French is — er — quite rusty," said Jones irritably. 
 " Pardon, commong, Mossoo ? " 
 
 An evil creature with one finger missing spat out 
 something feline and incomprehensible — he changed 
 to French, to German. “ He does not understand — 
 Gustav Linkoff — hola ! — does not know Polish, Russian 
 — oh, you play your game w r ell for time — you who track 
 us in our ow T n homes — you who dog honest anarchists." 
 
MR. JONES HAS ANOTHER ADVENTURE 131 
 
 " And a very proper thing to do if I could/' said Mr. 
 Jones. " Anarchists ought to be ashamed of them- 
 selves. Hiding with clockwork bombs which miss 
 kings and kill little sightseeing children." 
 
 " Nom &' un nom ! — it is of a truth/' said the big Henri 
 | — into his beard. 
 
 They broke out furiously. As one in a dream, Mr. 
 Jones watched the mobile, furious faces, the whicker of 
 moving knives, the dull gleam of the revolver barrels. 
 He listened to the chatter of tongues. 
 
 Ladisloff, a slender Pole, far gone in consumption, 
 spoke again, and Mr. Jones listened blankly. 
 
 " A charming language," he said, trying conciliation \ 
 Ladisloff said " B-r-r-r " and wiped his forehead. The ■ 
 big man Henri leant forward. 
 
 "We waste time," he said, "and man delays. See 
 you worm, Linkoff, have it Engleesh." 
 
 Sitting in the hard chair, little Jones began to sift 
 some grains from the whirl of chaff. 
 
 It appeared that Gustav Linkoff was a tracker of men, 
 a creature of many disguises, immune to death ; that he 
 held now a list of names of plotters — men who meant 
 to strike some desperate blow for freedom, and that this 
 list, which he had come to New York to complete, was 
 to be handed to the authorities of all countries involved. 
 It meant death to those upon it. 
 
 " You care not that it is for freedom we struggle — 
 for the oppression of centuries. You come among us, 
 you who know naught but English, and learn our secrets. 
 You crumble our work, as diners crumble bread, between 
 your cruel fingers." 
 
 " But even supposing I had a list," said practical Mr. 
 Jones, " I should have a copy at home on carbon paper, 
 my good men." 
 
 " Nom d’un nom ! When we see the names we go 
 as rats to our holes, and — more." The ring of faces 
 closed in under the light of the lamp, the knives flashed. 
 "We should know who are our — betrayers," the word 
 hissed through the hot room. 
 
132 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 “ Dear me — you Ladis — you very nearly cut the other 
 gentleman's ear/' said Mr. Jones wamingly. “Do be 
 careful. And — er " 
 
 Ladisloff s look was blood-curdling. 
 
 “ I may cut a mans throat — slowly — ere it is dawn," 
 he breathed. “ Oh, but slowly — yes, Linkoff — the kiss 
 of the steel — no merciful swiftness — but slow, slow — 
 against a scraggy neck." 
 
 Mr. Jones adjusted his collar; he asked if a crack 
 of window^ might be opened, he felt faint. 
 
 Henri raised the sash a little. 
 
 “And it seems to me," said Mr. Jones, “l speak 
 dispassionately — that if you did get that list, you would 
 kill some other people instead of being killed yourselves. 
 I do come in for most distressing adventures," said Mr. 
 Jones, “most. I really must ask you to let me go 
 home, gentlemen — Mossoos, Polish Henri — I ask it." 
 
 They pressed on him. “ The list, the list." Ladisloff 's 
 slim hands, burning with fever, searched Jones' pockets. 
 With horror Mr. Jones saw the production of a suede 
 card-case with cards in it marked M. de Vallon, of a silk 
 handkerchief, two pairs of handcuffs and a derringer. 
 
 “ You are not Linkoff and he stays as de Vallon at 
 the Wardorf . You are Jones ? Give us one proof — see, 
 your cards." 
 
 “ All my shirts are carefully marked," said Mr. Jones 
 faintly; “ but this is one I purchased yesterday. Oh, 
 dear — I borrowed the coat — from Pinker — Rockfeller s 
 clerk." 
 
 “ Rockfeller in it — nom <Tun nom! " said Henri. 
 
 There was no list to be found — they got round him 
 again, threatening ; blue blades whickered close to him, 
 one cut his cheek, and Mr. Jones went on asking, feebly 
 now, for his wife. 
 
 “ Ring up the hotel — ask for Pinker — for Mr. Rock- 
 feller. I am Archibald Jones of Golders Green — The 
 Acacias. It is an outrage — I shall write to The Times” 
 
 “ Heat up some of these irons," snapped the swarthy 
 man they called Triki. “ Make him speak. He is 
 
MR. JONES HAS ANOTHER ADVENTURE 133 
 
 playing for time; do not trust him. Max makes no 
 mistakes/' 
 
 " He is en retard — Max," said Henri. 
 
 The men conferred together. Mr. Jones gathered that 
 before he was done to death this Max must be found. 
 
 " You’ll all be so worried when you find to-morrow 
 that you have killed the wrong man," said Mr. Jones. 
 " And I wish you all joy of your list, you canalls." Mr. 
 Jones meant canaille , and fortunately his pronuncia- 
 tion made him unintelligible. 
 
 " You — canals — sapper — sapper — I've forgotten the 
 end of the word," said Mr. Jones. "When you're all 
 caught I shall not be sorry. And if you won't use 
 the 'phone " 
 
 One of them slapped him on the mouth ; they drew 
 together, muttering, threatening, a human kaleidoscope 
 of villainy. Two of them turned and lashed Mr. Jones' 
 hands behind him deftly ; they gagged him. 
 
 " Now we leave you, we go to find Max. In half an 
 hour, less, we shall be back, then you can give us the 
 names or we shall kill you slowly. Once we have your 
 list you go — we pledge our honour." 
 
 " I should be sorry to trust to it," said Mr. Jones, 
 just before they gagged him. 
 
 They filed out stealthily. The big Henri lingered, 
 staring at Jones. 
 
 "You are brave, lapin," he said, "you bluff well, 
 M. Linkoff ; why not give it up?" He loosed the gag. 
 "You dog us without pity; weare wild men, butwe believe 
 we do good. See? They call you a human tiger, but 
 yet you look it not. I have a son, a mere child — led 
 into "this latest — call it folly. He is my all ; for him would 
 I die. I can get him to fly and lead another life, but 
 it is in your hands. Ah, Gustav Linkoff, when he dies 
 you kill two men and a weak woman. I speak to you, 
 man to man. We shall kill you — dead ! The world 
 loses its great tracker of crime. Be merciful." 
 
 "This is a most distressing adventure," said Mr. 
 Jones, blinking. 
 
134 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 The man's voice had rung with such strange pathos. 
 
 “Nom d'tin nom /" Henri leant closer. “ Linkoff, 
 you'll doit. You'll save Valdi — Valdi's mother. Ah, 
 I succeed." 
 
 “ If I were Linkoff," Mr. Jones said. “ But I am 
 Archibald Jones — of London. I swear it, Henri." 
 
 " One is a fool to talk to weazels." Henri fixed the gag 
 again and strode out. The door shut softly. Mr. Jones 
 was alone. He looked round the room. It was small — 
 the table curiously thick and strong. He saw a box on 
 the floor containing money. Mr. Jones felt very upset. 
 He felt sure that it must be all right, but he struggled 
 free and wandered about looking for something to cut 
 his cords against; his hands w r ere lashed behind him. 
 There was a file on the table and one of the wicked look- 
 ing knives. Mr. Jones managed to bring his wrist over 
 the blade. He cut his hands, but he worked warily and 
 felt the cord snick at last. He rubbed his wrists and 
 ran to the window. It was barred ; no hope of getting 
 out. He loosed his gag and shouted, but no one heard 
 him, or if they did took no notice. Cries were of too 
 frequent occurrence in that quarter. 
 
 Far down he could just see little dots moving, no 
 wheeled traffic. Then he looked at the box of coins. 
 New dollars, bright and fresh. 
 
 “ If I threw some out," said Mr. Jones, “ they might 
 look up." He shied a dollar and looked, saw a dot stop 
 and another join it. He threw another and another, 
 flinging them fast. Black figures gathered, staring up. 
 Mr. Jones shouted “ Help ! " but they did not seem to 
 hear. He shied on — the crowd broke and massed again 
 suddenly. 
 
 The door opened and the men poured in wildly. 
 
 " Sapristi ! there is a crowd outside. Two plain- 
 clothes men were passing. Oh, viper, if they come up ! " 
 
 The man Triki rushed at Mr. Jones. “ I am ruined," 
 he shrieked. “ Ruined by this . . . Who tied him ? 
 Who ? " 
 
 “ My God ! it is the wrong man." A clean-shaven 
 
MR. JONES HAS ANOTHER ADVENTURE 135 
 
 youth dressed as a waite** sprang forward. “ It is not 
 Linkoff. I put a thread on our man's coat — thus." He 
 held up the coat. 
 
 “ It was very officious of you," said Mr. Jones, “ and 
 the cause of a most distressing adventure." 
 
 “ And this misery took the wrong one, "said Max. “ I 
 could not get away, there was such a rush. Linkoff is 
 still at coffee." 
 
 “ Viper ! He has thrown out my dollars. I am 
 ruined. The worm shall die ; they come up," wailed 
 Triki. 
 
 Triki swung round and flung a knife at Mr. Jones, 
 missing him, then he took aim with another. 
 
 “ Non, he do no harm. He was sorry." Henri 
 tweaked the little man to one side. Triki, lunging with 
 desire to kill, struck on, and Henri went down with a 
 choking sob. He coughed as he lay, his face leaden. 
 
 “ Now you have killed a man," said Mr. Jones. “ Oh, 
 poor Henri." He went down on his knees, careless of 
 the fact that Triki had poised for a third stroke. 
 
 Someone hissed a foreign word. Triki drew back, 
 throwing his knife. The gang turned and poured out, 
 leaving Mr. Jones alone with the dyingman, and two plain- 
 clothes men dashed into the room. 
 
 “ Here, yew," spat one of them, yanking Mr. Jones to 
 his feet, “ got yew at last." 
 
 " Kindly 'phone to my wife, officer," said Mr. Jones, 
 “ and to a medical man. This poor creature is dying. 
 Dear, dear ! " 
 
 One of the police remarked coldly that it was easy to 
 see who had killed him and why. 
 
 " For throwing your dud coin out of the window. 
 We've been after yew for a long while an' got yew at last." 
 
 More men came into the room ; they pounced as terriers 
 might have on rats upon the various implements and 
 tools. One held up a cast admiringly, they handled little 
 braziers and dies ; they lighted on paper bills, and Mr. 
 Jones felt the snap of cold steel on his wrists. 
 
 “ 'Ere ! you let me go," he said, angry now. “ I 
 
136 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 have always told you that London was properly managed 
 and New York mismanaged/' 
 
 “ Tell it to the court," said a man they called Lefroy. 
 “ Get a doc., Cy — this blighter's past speech." 
 
 " If I am to be now taken for a coiner my patience will 
 give way," said Mr. Jones irritably. “ 'Phone, 'phone 
 my wife ; 'phone Mr. Rockfeller, constable. If you 
 persist in this folly, I — I — shall get Mr. Amos to write 
 to The Times ." 
 
 “ Trying the insanity stunt," said Lefroy absently. 
 " Hello, they've got this creature's pals. Good ! " 
 
 “ My — pals," said little Mr. Jones. “ My God ! I, 
 who was brought here in mistake for something called 
 Gustav Linkoff " — Lefroy started — “ I, who by my cool- 
 ness and presence of mind saved my own life — the New 
 York police did not. 'Phone your Mr. Jordan. He 
 knows me. I was trapped by this gang of thieves." 
 
 A shot rang outside, followed by a hoarse shriek. 
 Henri's eyelids quivered. 
 
 “ My pover Henri," said Mr. Jones softly. 
 
 “ Yew were only brought here, and yew know the man 
 by his Christian name. Pooh, you make me laugh," 
 said Lefroy. 
 
 “ You get Mr. Jordan. Get Mr. Rockfeller," snapped 
 Mr. Jones. “ Get Pinker and my wife. I protest 
 against this outrage. 'Phone before you destroy your 
 professional reputation, Mr. Lefroy." Mr. Jones spoke 
 with dignity. “ Oh, I don't know why I am marked 
 down for adventures," he said sadly. 
 
 But Lefroy wavered a little. 
 
 “ Here, what's this? " he said, thrusting a die into 
 Jones' face. 
 
 “ It appears to be a die," said Mr. Jones. “ I am 
 astounded you should not know yourself. I have seen 
 illustrations of them in magazine articles." 
 
 Lefroy sat on the steady table and caressed his chin 
 with his hand. “ We've made some stir over this show. 
 He " 
 
 Mr. Jones' friend Jordan ran into the room. 
 
MR. JONES HAS ANOTHER ADVENTURE 137 
 
 " Some catch/' he said. " Who nailed it ? " 
 
 " I," said Mr. Jones. " I — Mr. Jordan. Not these 
 rude persons." Jordan turned and stood staring. 
 
 " ' 1/ said the sparrow, 'with my bow and arrow/ " he 
 said heavily. 
 
 "Facetiousness is out of place," said little Jones 
 coldly. " And now, kindly tell these blunderers that I 
 am not the coiner." 
 
 " I declare one wouldn't know what you might be," 
 said Jordan, undoing the handcuffs. " And I'd like 
 the story right away." 
 
 I Mr. Jones, glancing unamiably at Lefroy, told it 
 simply. 
 
 " Strikes me, Jones, you were mighty near Heaven/ 
 said Jordan slowly, as he felt the edge of the knife. 
 "Now what made you think of throwing the coins out 
 — what ? " 
 
 " Being a man of resource, and knowing the cupidity 
 of Americans," said Mr. Jones. " I should like to go 
 home when poor Henri is attended to. I am tired. 1 
 have missed a theatre." 
 
 A shabby doctor bustled into the room, made an 
 examination, and thought Henri might live or might 
 not. 
 
 Jordan replied, drily, that one or the other was possible, 
 and asked Mr. Jones to come outside. 
 
 In another room police were guarding most of the 
 gang. Max had escaped, and Triki lay dead on the 
 dirty floor. 
 
 " Why I, who even hate squashing slugs — I always 
 carry a brine bath — should be so mixed up with blood- 
 shed "said Mr. Jones piteously. " Yes, I identify all 
 
 these creatures, but they did not show Aan — Animosity 
 to me, remember. It was this Linkoff they wished 
 to slay." 
 
 " We'.ve been wanting this coiner's den for months," 
 said Jordan. " We came up here twice, to find an old 
 hag cooking. Her duds are in the cupboard there — 
 they blinked me. Say, would you joinourforce, Jones ? " 
 
 E* 
 
IRISH STEW 
 
 138 
 
 " I could not leave Mosenthals, even though I feel 1 
 should be of value to you,” replied Mr. Jones. " And 
 I dislike bloodshed — as I have told you. Two dead 
 men. Oh dear!” 
 
 Lefroy put a hand over his mouth. 
 
 The message to Mr. Jones' hotel brought down Anna 
 Jones, Pinker, and Peter Greer, all filled with anxiety. 
 
 " Rockfeller's got a 'tec always watching Jones, too,” 
 said Jordan, “ man of mine ; but Jones must have slipped 
 out from the restaurant.” 
 
 Mr. Jones went back to poor coughing Henri. 
 
 “ I'll try to save your boy, Henri,” he whispered. 
 “ I might.” 
 
 Mr. Jones was very tired, but he insisted on driving 
 back to Delmonico's, where he found the owner of the 
 coat which he had taken. 
 
 Linkoff — he passed as M. de Vallon at present — was a 
 slight man with melancholy eyes. He was a master 
 of disguises. His teeth were prominent, he had a dozen 
 sets ; he could twist his features, paint on scars. He 
 escaped death by fractions of inches, and next day was 
 among the enemies as one of themselves. When Jordan 
 brought up Mr. Jones, Linkoff's eyebrows went up. 
 He took the coat, listened to the story and touched the 
 black thread softly. 
 
 “ If they'd got me,” he said, “ well — I think it would 
 have been over by now.” 
 
 “ You would possibly not have thought of the coins,” 
 said Mr. Jones. 
 
 Linkoff eyed him curiously. 
 
 “I don't suppose I should have thought of anything 
 more if it had not been that late diners came in, and this 
 Max was delayed — that is, had I been taken. But now, 
 monsieur ” 
 
 Mr. Jones intimated that he wished for a private 
 conversation. Yes, he would take coffee. Supper had 
 not commenced ; the room was comparatively empty. 
 
 Mr. Jones leant across the table stating his case. 
 He gave details of his adventure, even repeating his 
 
MR. JONES HAS ANOTHER ADVENTURE 139 
 
 remarks, until Linkoff was troubled by a cough and hid 
 his face in a handkerchief. But Henri — Henri had 
 saved his life ; he wanted to save Henri's son. 
 
 " It is an awful thing to track these people/' said Mr. 
 Jones. 
 
 Linkoff 's eyes saddened. " A human bloodhound 
 must be relentless, Mr. Jones of London. I track blood- 
 hounds possessed by rabies. This plot which I have 
 unearthed would have taken young sons, and old fathers 
 would have rocked the world. You " — he took out a 
 pocket-book — " you are the man who came down the 
 fire-escape. Join me, Mr. Jones. Your face and 
 manner are assets of value incalculable." He threw 
 back his head. " I wish I'd seen them when they talked 
 Polish and Russian to you, and you did not understand 
 — oh, wondrous little man ! Yes, you saved me, Mr. 
 Jones, and I am grateful." 
 
 "Then just take Henri's son off that list," said Mr. 
 Jones, " and the obligation will be repaid, sir." 
 
 At this Linkoff broke down. He laughed aloud and 
 without restraint. He beckoned to Jordan and ordered 
 drinks, Mr. Jones taking sips of his when assured it 
 was lemonade. 
 
 "Mr. Jones," said Linkoff, "you make a mistake. 
 Yes." He pulled out a small piece of paper and taking his 
 fountain-pen drew a line through one small sign. 
 
 "Henri's son," he said, "can get away in safety. 
 I did not think — think that I should do such a foolish 
 thing for anyone, Mr. Jones. Yet you made me do it.’ 
 
 " God made you do it," said Mr. Jones gently. 
 
 Linkoff put down his glass. 
 
 " Almost thou makest me a believer," he said grimly. 
 " Now go to bed, and to-morrow you shall see Henri 
 if he is alive. In any case his son is safe." 
 
 Mrs. Jones took her husband home, chiding him 
 severely for his carelessness in getting lost. 
 
 " You seem to delight in slumming, Archibald," she 
 said, " and then ringing up the police. Now have an 
 aspirin and get to sleep." 
 
140 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 Mr. Jones' story never came fully to his wife, who did 
 not read the papers. He was allowed to escape the full 
 trial, his evidence being taken down, but he took a street 
 car to the hospital where Henri lay, and armed with a 
 card sent by Jordan was admitted. 
 
 Big Henri lay still and quiet, his eyes alone restless 
 and full of agonised thought. 
 
 He smiled slightly as he saw the little clerk. The nurse 
 shook her head behind his bed. 
 
 Mr. Jones bent down and whispered, 
 
 " I have seen Linkoff. Your son must get away. He 
 is free — no longer a marked man." 
 
 "Oh, my!" said the nurse, as the patient turned 
 scarlet. " Oh, my! — well, it doesn't matter." 
 
 The scarlet ebbed and the torment died out of the 
 man's eyes. 
 
 " Nom d'un nom — c'est la v6rit6 ? " he whispered. 
 " Pas la blague, M'sieur? " 
 
 " Verite ! we — we — si — si," said Mr. Jones. "Real 
 verity, Henri — get off a letter." 
 
 Two hours later the nurse rang Mr. Jones up to say 
 that Henri was sleeping peacefully and would probably 
 live. He had not a dog's chance this morning, she said. 
 
 " And in all this excitement I had quite forgotten the 
 firm's niece," said Mr. Jones. " I am really tired of 
 strain and of adventures, but I trust this also will be 
 right." 
 
MR. JONES MAKES SEVERAL 
 MATCHES AND RETIRES 
 
MR. JONES MAKES SEVERAL 
 MATCHES AND RETIRES 
 
 D URING his wanderings in New York, Mr. 
 
 Archibald Jones had come across a necklace 
 which he had looked at carefully. It was a 
 florid, badly-set affair, the jewels worked into 
 the semblance of daisies, the centre of each a tinged 
 diamond, the petals, rubies, emeralds, sapphires, chryso- 
 prase and turquoise, and the whole thing finished with 
 a tassel of pearls and joined by large square stones. 
 
 Now Mr. Jones was a judge. He saw that good and 
 cheap jewels had been set together, but so far as he could 
 see the big emeralds were flawless, the sapphires deeply 
 blue, the rubies pigeons'-blood and the centres yellow 
 diamonds. He discarded discoloured turquoises and 
 lumps of chrysoprase and aquamarine, and he noted 
 a huge pear-shaped pearl at the end of the tassel, also a 
 particularly pink diamond used as one square stone. 
 
 Mr. Jones saw it in a second-hand shop, where its 
 florid gold setting had evidently caused it to escape 
 notice. Each flower was encased in gold, and he cabled 
 Mr. Amos Mosenthal. He then went down and bought 
 the necklace, unaware that one of his shadowers followed 
 him ; and he took it to his hotel, where he placed it with 
 the manager. 
 
 Having secured return passages in the dorytania , 
 Mr. Jones was anxious to leave New York. He said it 
 was too high, and the golden lady hanging over it was 
 too symbolic of its spirit. 
 
 “ Shifting about, too/' said Mr. Jones, as he looked 
 
144 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 up at Flora's flaunting beauty. " I prefer the Park 
 to Maddison Gardens, and the Albert Memorial to any 
 gilded female/' he told Pinker. 
 
 Mr. Pinker had seen the Albert Memorial, and grinned 
 gently. 
 
 On the morning following Mr. Jones' dangerous 
 adventure he was called to the 'phone. 
 
 “ We must see you. Have arranged for a flight down. 
 
 Will be at landing place. Go at once to Aerodrome, 
 
 they'll ring you up." 
 
 “ Oh, my goodness," said Mr. Jones. “ Anna, I 
 have never flown, it is quite dangerous." But he 
 looked for a collar. “ I cannot show lack of courage, 
 Anna." 
 
 “ What I believe," said Anna Jones, “ is that you are 
 Methuselah reincarnated, Archibald, otherwise you'd 
 be dead long ago, all the follies you go in for. Don't 
 you go a-flying, Archibald. I'm off to the Pink^rs." 
 
 Little Mr. Jones wondered what could have happened 
 at Newport — and was again disturbed by a ring from the 
 aerodrome. A flight was arranged, he was to come at 
 once. 
 
 He inquired his way, travelled by street car and 
 elevated, and car again, and reached a vast place where 
 a flying machine was just humming out. 
 
 “ Jones— flight arranged for Newport." A clerk took 
 his name. 
 
 He walked inside and was directed to a small two- 
 seater. 
 
 “ Just tinkering her up a little," said a man ; “ over 
 there she is." 
 
 Mr. Jones looked at a small machine ; he saw her 
 started, and the mechanic's coat as he bent over the 
 machinery was tom and fluttered by the gale ; the noise 
 was deafening. 
 
 Mr. Jones kicked the earth lovingly. Someone 
 took off his hat and gave him a leather cap and a coat ; 
 he machine was ready. 
 
 Mr. Jones clambered over the wings, noting how flimsy 
 
MR. JONES MAKES SEVERAL MATCHES 145 
 
 the whole thing was ; he lowered himself into an oily 
 cockpit and sighed. 
 
 " If it was not that it was the firm's niece — " he said. 
 " Please tell the driver to go carefully, young man — and 
 not too fast. I feel sure I shall be sick." 
 
 The great whirr of the engine sounded, they rose lightly 
 as a bird might have. A rush of air took Mr. Jones' 
 i breath away ; they were rising, rising, high above house c 
 above the tall city, up in the fair blue sky. 
 
 They banked, and Mr. Jones blinked. 
 
 " Be careful, young man," he said, oblivious of the fact 
 that his voice was tom away. 
 
 Then he forgot to be afraid. He laughed when they 
 fell into an air pocket ; he held on, peering out, and 
 the rush of cold air went as wine to his head. 
 
 Far down there were pigmies ; earth-bound, hot, 
 perspiring. He was as some winged god or great eagle, 
 master of the air. 
 
 Little toy trains puffed on their toy railways ; the world 
 was strangely green, seen from above. The pilot, smiling 
 a little, dived down, and Mr. Jones felt as if the whole 
 i of his being was going out of the top of his head. 
 
 "This will upset me," said Mr. Jones. "Driver, 
 please put on your brake." 
 
 They were rushing now, the power of the two-hundred 
 horse-power engine making the frail structure thrill. 
 It was difficult to breathe, and Mr. Jones' knuckles were 
 white from their long clasp on the sides. He began to 
 feel lonely. If he were afraid, if he got ill, he was alone 
 in the clouds. A shriek for help would be tom from his 
 lips. 
 
 " What an exciting story would be written," thought 
 Mr. Jones, " of someone dying back here and being 
 discovered on landing, or of the passenger shooting 
 the pilot and then assuming control when upsetting. 
 I shall mention it to someone interested in cinemas. Oh, 
 dear, I do wish he would sit down quietly." They 
 dropped, the earth seemed to rush up to meet them, 
 the marble palaces of Newport and the sea washing 
 
IRISH STEW 
 
 146 
 
 
 apologetically on Bailey's Beach could be seen. The 
 pilot circled quietly, Mr. Jones objecting to the banking, 
 and they drifted towards a green field. 
 
 Nearer still, and they landed as a bird might have, 
 so lightly, taxied for a second, and the rush and whin- 
 ceasing made the world full of oppressive silence. 
 
 Mr. Jones fumbled at his straps ; his hands were cold. 
 
 " Oh, we knew you'd come," said Gladys Hartley, 
 "we settled with Mr. Sykes here last night. We 
 couldn't wait for trains." The exceeding happiness on 
 their faces left no doubt in Mr. Jones' mind. 
 
 He touched the grass joyfully, and yet almost with 
 regret. 
 
 “ There is something — para — para — paradisical — how 
 can one put it? — about flying, Miss Gladys," he said. 
 " But, oh dear, what will the firm say — and how they 
 will blame me ! " 
 
 “ I should have stayed in America if you had not 
 confessed what a traitor you were last night," said 
 Gladys. " We go to town to-morrow and stay a night 
 before sailing, stay with the Rockfellers, and there's a 
 great fancy dress bathing-party this afternoon. But 
 it's getting cold for bathing, I think." 
 
 Mr. Jones, feeling rather sea-sick, listened to the 
 raptures of two foolish young people. He sighed as he 
 thought of Mr. Samuel and Mr. Amos, but he was glad 
 at heart. 
 
 They persuaded the little man to assume a mask and 
 domino and join the party. 
 
 Mr. Jones did not feel repentant when he saw G. P. 
 Hockley dressed as Neptune, glittering in silver tights 
 which accentuated his lumpy figure, and in hot pursuit 
 of a masked nymph who swam away from him. 
 
 “ That's Kitty Halland," whispered Gladys, " wearing 
 my dress. She's the dandiest swimmer here, and he 
 thinks it's me. We arranged that." 
 
 The nymph disappeared into one of the many grottos 
 erected, pursued by the silver sea god ; they did not 
 come out. 
 
MR. JONES MAKES SEVERAL MATCHES 147 
 
 " She rather wants to marry him herself," said Gladys. 
 " Oh, Mr. Jones, what does money matter ? " 
 
 " Well, you know, it does," said Mr. Jones. “ Cheap 
 flower seeds now are often unreliable." 
 
 Little Jones felt that his mission was over. Part of 
 it had been a glorious success and must counteract his 
 failure. 
 
 A disconsolate-looking Ink-blot — they all wore their 
 names — lounged on the shore, shivering, and looked with 
 hurt expression at Miss Hartley. It was Colonel Hume, 
 who felt inclined to quarrel with all things relating or 
 related to Mosenthals. 
 
 He had been encouraged to come to America by Mr. 
 Samuel Mosenthal, with the idea that the journey would 
 complete all arrangements. The difficulty of Peter Greer 
 having — apparently — been wiped from his path, the 
 far larger difficulty of the American had loomed up, 
 and now Peter Greer was back again. 
 
 Colonel Hume gloomed at the waves and at Gladys 
 and at little Mr. Jones and said it was cold, and was 
 offended when a slender American heiress threw a jelly- 
 fish at him. Jelly-fish seemed to have no business to 
 intrude on Bailey's Beach. 
 
 When the chilled bathers got into warm clothes and 
 sat down to eat a luxurious luncheon, Mr. Jones, feeling 
 nervous, stayed near Miss Hartley. The shelter of his 
 mask and domino was reft from him, and he was afraid 
 of all the moneyed people. He listened to their chatter 
 in amazement. 
 
 The sky was overcast, the sea heaving restlessly, its 
 hue steel-grey, and everyone felt that the summer was 
 really over. 
 
 Mr. Jones began to talk of his find — the necklace. 
 
 " Personally, I believe it to be priceless — in partlly 
 he said, " with some stones of fabulous value." 
 
 So Gladys remarked that she would take it and wear 
 it. 
 
 "In which case a great responsibility will have been 
 lifted from my mind," said Mr. Jones thoughtfully. 
 
148 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 “ Don't you ever talk of fabulous values in public, 
 little man / 5 said Hockley crossly. He and the nymph 
 had returned, flushed below their pinched blueness ; 
 “the very fellow handing your ice pudding may be a 
 crook." 
 
 “The very word," said Mr. Jones, “ causes me to 
 shiver, Mr. G. P. Hockley. My experiences have been so 
 very alarming — apaches, duchesses, baronets, fire- 
 escapes — and they all seem parts of bad dreams. Newee 
 Jumongs would be the French," said Mr. Jones, proud 
 of his knowledge. 
 
 A French marquis sitting near said “Si, si," gravely. 
 
 Mr. Jones cabled the firm next day, and his answer 
 in code was permission to give Gladys the necklace. 
 But there was also a cable of which he knew nothing 
 sent to Rockfeller, who sent for little Jones to bid him 
 good-bye. 
 
 “ If you want a sit. apply to me," said the million- 
 aire. “It's the chaps who butt in blindly who win 
 through. You just go on, Jones, with no idea where you 
 are going to, eh ? " 
 
 “ I do my duty," said little Jones firmly, “to the 
 firm." 
 
 “ And before you cost them some money in doing it 
 they should settle you down to grow sweet-peas," said 
 Rockfeller thoughtfully. “ Got a necklace on your 
 mind now, returning — this is my job, I think." 
 
 Mr. Jones, Gladys, and the two soldiers bade good-bye 
 to New York on a crisp September morning, the sea 
 dancing bluely, its little wavelets fringed with white. 
 
 The Glorytania throbbed, ready to start, and Mr. Jones 
 was again in the saloon, with Anna, his wife, travelling 
 second. 
 
 He noted nervously that the curious rococo necklace 
 was clasped about Gladys Hartley's neck, but other- 
 wise he was at peace. He was looking after it, of course, 
 but it was not the same onerous duty as the minding of 
 the emeralds. 
 
 Mr. Jones had learnt to look with suspicion on his 
 
MR. JONES MAKES SEVERAL MATCHES 149 
 
 fellow men. He found that a certain ingenuous looking 
 youth, by name Hawtry, followed him and was, Mr. 
 Jones considered, too friendly. 
 
 Hawtrey was a slim, dandified man, with a vacant 
 expression, and he was also friendly with the firm's 
 niece. 
 
 Called by Gladys into the state-room one day, Mr. 
 Jones was horrified to see a letter from Samuel Mosenthal 
 lying about fully signed — and also Gladys' cheque book. 
 
 " Supposing anyone came along and copied his 
 signature," gasped Mr. Jones, “ and it's the same bank." 
 
 “ Oh, the firm sign ‘ &Co.,' don't they ? " said Gladys 
 carelessly. “ And no one would — so dangerous, forgery." 
 
 Mr. Jones was nevertheless alarmed. He sent a wire- 
 less message which made Mr. Samuel use bad language. 
 
 “ Be careful of cheques Jones," was distinctly 
 ambiguous. 
 
 “ Mad," said Samuel Mosenthal. “ Mad, all through. 
 And now becoming impertinent. This Jones is getting 
 swelled head," he spat to Mr. Amos his brother. 
 
 “ Wireless so expensive too," said Amos absently. 
 
 “ Be careful of cheques — the stations picking that up. 
 He has some maggot in what he calls his brain." 
 
 The Glorytania picked up a message addressed to 
 Archibald Jones which was brief. 
 
 “ Unintelligible nonsense received Mosenthal." 
 
 Mr. Jones was ruffled. He had found a kindred spirit, 
 a Colonel Vemey who lived in Yorkshire, and who talked 
 of flowers to the little man. 
 
 He even invited Jones cordially to come to the Towers 
 and see his sweet-peas on his return. 
 
 “ Under glass ? " said Mr. Jones. 
 
 “ Sweet-peas are summer flowers, said Vemey hastily. 
 “Er — yes, under glass, of course, "yes, naturally." 
 
 This Vemey was a sensible looking grey-headed man, 
 who had been prevented by ill health, he told Mr. Jones, 
 from serving in the great war. He had been out in 
 Canada and had come back via New York. 
 
 Anna Jones was not sympathetic. Mr. Jones over a 
 
130 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 glass of champagne told some of his adventures and 
 discussed Gladys' carelessness. 
 
 " A signature left lying about — Samuel Mosenthal's," 
 he said irritably, “and the necklace in a pin-tray — a 
 pin-tray 1 " 
 
 “ And he signs like that his private cheques ? " Verney 
 asked a little breathlessly. 
 
 Little Jones pulled out a pocket-book. He had been 
 given a great deal of money, he considered, but as they 
 were starting, Mr. Samuel had thrust a small cheque into 
 his hands for tips and so forth if wanted. 
 
 Mr. Jones had not wanted it, and had even forgotten 
 it, but he looked at it now. It was the first private 
 cheque of the brothers which he had seen. 
 
 “ Yes — Samuel Mosenthal," he said slowly, replacing 
 it in his book. “ Just the same ; dreadfully dangerous." 
 
 “ One fellow I don't care for the look of aboard," 
 whispered Verney. “ H'ssh — he's close by — Hawtry." 
 
 At this, Mr. Jones got up, observed that the vacuous- 
 looking youth was sleeping in a deck-chair near them, and 
 took a walk to air his views. He suspected Hawtry ; 
 the man shadowed him, and was obtrusively civil. 
 
 “ Knowing that I travel for a great firm," said Mr. 
 Jones, “ he may think I carry jewels." 
 
 At this moment the youth called Hawtry woke up, 
 yawned, and strolled along the Leviathan's deck. 
 
 “Chilly," he said. “Jones, could you give me a 
 scrap of paper and a pencil ? " 
 
 Mr. Jones produced a fountain-pen and a letter card. 
 Hawtry wrote down something which he gave to a 
 steward and stayed with them. 
 
 He suffered, it appeared, from the loss of a pocket- 
 book, dropped or stolen. His was useless to him. He 
 asked Mr. Jones if he could advise a good make. 
 
 “Mine," said little Jones, “is excellent," and he 
 pulled it out. 
 
 “ Particularly useful make," said the Yorkshire squire, 
 holding out his hand. 
 
 Verney yawned again, turning the pocket-book over. 
 
MR. JONES MAKES SEVERAL MATCHES 151 
 
 The great ship throbbed steadily, spuming the sea, but 
 Hawtry lurched, cried out, and Mr. Jones' pocket-book 
 floated in the creamy wash. A little black speck it rose 
 and fell, and slugged more soddenly and fell astern, where 
 it bobbed rakishly. 
 
 “ With a large quantity of memos, several unprinted 
 films, five pounds and a cheque," shrieked little Jones 
 wildly. “ Supposing a submarine containing a crook 
 finds it ! " 
 
 The most extraordinary part was the behaviour of 
 Vemey. He made a dash for the rail, and would have 
 been over in his gust of sympathy had not Hawtry and 
 Mr. Jones clung to him. 
 
 “They'd stop for me," he said ill-humouredly. “ I 
 swim like a fish. You fool, to drop it ! " 
 
 Hawtry apologised tearfully. He produced a five- 
 pound note. He offered to help to re-write the diary ; 
 and as for the cheque 
 
 Little Mr. Jones was distinctly ruffled. 
 
 “ I call it exceedingly careless," he said huffily. “ A 
 perfectly good pocket-book full of valuable contents." 
 
 “Might be as lucky he dropped it," said Vemey 
 angrily, “ with that cheque in it." 
 
 A pang of fear shot through Mr. Jones' heart. Sup- 
 posing it was camouflage. Then he must be thankful 
 that the book was drowned. 
 
 “ Really at first," Vemey laughed, “ I almost thought 
 it was something alive, Jones, and was going to jump. But 
 I should have been all right. Kind of fish lam." 
 
 At this moment Gladys came hurrying across the deck, 
 looking excited. 
 
 “ Someone's got that letter, Mr. Jones," she said, 
 “ opened a box and taken it out. Come down quickly." 
 
 “ And the necklace ? " 
 
 “ Oh, I've got that on," she said, “ but there's the 
 signature. I locked the letter up." 
 
 Little Jones searched the box and saw the captain. 
 
 The ship's emperor was less haughty to the little man, 
 for he recalled the emeralds. 
 
152 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 “ Never forget you shinning — er — running away in 
 pursuit/' he said. “Now what's this? I'm to lock 
 up Hawtry? I'm not D.O.R.A. in a peaked cap," said 
 the captain. “Then you'll wireless; the Glorytania 
 will be taken for a floating madhouse before we 
 berth." 
 
 Mr. Jones sent another message, which ran: “Do be 
 careful I advise it Jones." 
 
 “Sunstroke," said Mr. Samuel savagely, biting the 
 handle of his pen. 
 
 Gladys Hartley was really put out. She had locked 
 away the letter in a little long despatch box and it had 
 been taken out of it ; the lock presented no difficulties 
 to an expert. 
 
 The Glorytania throbbed her w^ay to England, and 
 little Jones, urged by the Yorkshireman Verne y, watched * 
 young Hawtry carefully. 
 
 Anna, his wife, wrapped in blissful reminiscences and 
 still more blissful forecasts of how she w^ould impress her 
 friends, said she might as well not have a husband. 
 
 “ I'll give 'em maple syrup. I've a tin of it," she said, 
 during one of Mr. Jones' brief visits to the second-class, j 
 “ and call the biscuits crackers, and the chocolates ‘ 
 candy. I shall not be at home for tea myself for a fort- i 
 night," said Anna Jones. “ Oh, here, Archibald, wdiat 
 pip have you got now ? — you're not listening." 
 
 “ Cheque-books," said Mr. Jones absently. “ Signa- 
 tures, my dear." 
 
 Land loomed up. They skirted the little green jewel 
 Ireland, emerald by name and opal by nature, an imp 
 of mischief ever dancing in her heart, and drew close to 
 Liverpool. 
 
 Mr. Jones hoped that one of his employers would meet 
 the ship. With a show of civility he asked Hawtry if 
 he would be travelling to London. 
 
 Hawtry, yawning, said he didn't know. 
 
 “Travel light," he said. “ I can spirit off while all 
 you people are collecting baggage. And I — may have 
 reason to hurry, Mr. Jones." 
 
 ♦ 
 
MR. JONES MAKES SEVERAL MATCHES 153 
 
 Little Jones said that it was odd for a man who had 
 been so long away to have no trunks, and Hawtry said 
 it was. Gladys Hartley, feeling a little nervous, got 
 ready to land, clasping the curious necklace round her 
 neck and hiding it by a muffler. She hoped that her 
 uncles would not be annoyed at her choice, but she 
 feared the worst. Little Jones thrashed out momentous 
 problems as they glided in. He felt nervous. 
 
 Hawtry would rush off and cash his forged cheque. 
 It must be prevented. The little man thought things 
 out ; he smiled as he went below and the great ship 
 trembled and slowed into her berth. Liverpool frowned 
 at them through an autumn blight. 
 
 Hawtry's cabin was next to Mr. Jones'. The little 
 man called out suddenly as if in pain, and Hawtry 
 ran in. 
 
 “ Oh, dear, I've dropped another blank cheque," 
 said Mr. Jones, staring as an anxious angler might to see 
 if a fly is taken. “ Mr. Amos's this time." 
 
 Mr. Hawtry murmured something about nurses. 
 
 “ Dropped or taken ? " he rasped out, stooping to 
 search. 
 
 Mr. Jones ran out and turned the key. He had tipped 
 the steward ; his things were up. He rushed on to the 
 deck and scurried off. In the confusion Mr. Hawtry 
 might shout for half an hour or more. 
 
 Vemey had gone off, and little Jones looked for him. 
 He left Anna and her luggage to her fate. He waited 
 anxiously for the first train, and drew a breath of relief 
 as it ran out of the station. But at the last moment 
 he saw Hawtry with set jaw tear down the platform 
 and leap into a carriage. 
 
 “ Dear me ! I had better wire the partners and go 
 straight to the bank," thought Mr. Jones. “ Mr. 
 Samuel's private account is at Golders. We got in so 
 early we shall be in London before closing time." 
 
 Mr. Jones wrote wires at Chester, one begging Mr. 
 Samuel to come at once to the bank to meet him. 
 
 He paid heavy bribes for a taxi at Euston, failed to 
 
154 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 get one, so plunged into the Tube, from which he was 
 ejected panting in the Strand and rushed to the bank. 
 It was close to closing time. 
 
 The little man still wore his deck shoes, which he had 
 forgotten to change. 
 
 “ Manager, immediately,” he said. “ Mr. Samuel 
 MosenthaTs — urgent .” 
 
 A bland gentleman looked up at Mr. Jones, unbent 
 at the mention of Mosenthals' name and then rubbed his 
 head, as Mr. Jones poured out his story. 
 
 “ Signature stolen — also cheques — you fear some 
 crook is here with a cheque and forged signature ? It's 
 rather muddled,” said the manager wearily. “ We've 
 just ten minutes; look out from here.” 
 
 Mr. Jones looked out at the busy crowd paying in 
 and receiving money, at the deft clerks sorting and 
 counting, the men scrutinising signatures. 
 
 Then Jones saw Hawtry, undisguised, saunter in 
 quietly. 
 
 “ Arrest him,” said Mr. Jones, “ Quickly, please, 
 sir.” 
 
 “ Lord bless me, I can't arrest a man for walking into 
 my bank,” said the manager petulantly. 
 
 To this Mr. Jones replied that ship's captains and bank 
 managers really encouraged crime. 
 
 Hawtry presented a cheque quietly and it was cashed 
 without demur. 
 
 The manager hurried forward. 
 
 “ It's a cheque for fifty of Samuel Mosenthal's, and I 
 could swear to the signature,” he said, looking at it 
 helplessly. “ It's correct.” 
 
 “ If you let him go,” said Mr. Jones, darting forward, 
 “ if you do — — ” 
 
 Banks have their ways. Hawtry seemed in no hurry, 
 but stood counting his notes slowly, and someone touched 
 him. 
 
 Manager wished to see him in the office — doubt as 
 to signature. Next moment Hawtry was confronted 
 by Mr. Jones. 
 
MR. JONES MAKES SEVERAL MATCHES 155 
 
 " Oh, you,” said Hawtry. “ You little ass — you 
 make me tired.” 
 
 “ I've got you, anyhow,” said Mr. Jones mildly. 
 
 " You locked me up at the most important moment. 
 You think I've forged that ? ” Hawtry drew out a card, 
 tossing it to the manager. 
 
 " Anyone can forge cards,” said little Mr. Jones, 
 
 " but this ” he looked at the cheque. " How could 
 
 you know — when it went into the sea ? ” he said 
 unevenly. “ How did you guess ? ” 
 
 Hawtry was visibly impatient ; the clock ticked on 
 and he stood near the door looking down the bank. 
 Paxton the manager was trying to get through to 
 Mosenthals' . 
 
 Next moment Hawtry had bounded from the room 
 and rushed down the emptying bank. 
 
 “ He's gone,” shrieked Mr. Jones. 
 
 “ Large cheque irregularly signed by Mr. Mosenthal,” 
 said a clerk; “ the bearer his own employee, Archibald 
 Jones ; says it's a mistake, but ” 
 
 “ Hold him — help! ” yelled Hawtry. “ Help, I say. 
 Here you, Jones — catch him. He didn't guess.” 
 
 Mr. Jones thought he must have nightmare when 
 his double, dishevelled, his coat tom, was hustled into 
 the room. 
 
 “ I've been after him the whole voyage,” said Hawtry, 
 as the handcuffs clicked, and the prisoner snarled im- 
 potently. ” I was put on to watch the necklace and was 
 on this job on my own. Here he is got up as our great 
 Jones, robber catcher.” 
 
 Vemey's height had mysteriously gone. He was a 
 little man, meek and shifting, and an excellent twin to 
 Mosenthal's clerk. 
 
 “ What on earth has Jones done now ? ” said 
 Amos Mosenthal, walking in. ” Two Jones, and one in 
 handcuffs.” 
 
 Here he sat down and drew devils on a small piece of 
 paper. Hawtry told his part of the story. He had been 
 near enough on deck to hear Jones confide in Vemey 
 
156 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 and heard Vemey talk of the signature ; then to save 
 the cheque being taken he had pitched the pocket-book 
 into the sea. 
 
 “ But dear me,” said little Jones huffily, “you 
 surprise me. Colonel Vemey asked — that is — the 
 letter was signed Samuel Mosenthal. I looked at the 
 cheque and saw the signature was S. N. Mosenthal, but 
 with the firm's interests at heart I — I " 
 
 “ You told a lie," roared Vemey, writhing. “ You — 
 turnip." 
 
 “ Naturally I did," said Mr. Jones. “ Naturillemong, 
 French " 
 
 The 'phone rang, and the manager took off the receiver. 
 
 “A lady," he said, “at your office, Mr. Mosenthal." 
 
 Mr. Amos blushed, then went to the 'phone. 
 
 “ Gladys — hello! — My niece's necklace has gone," he 
 said. “ She did not miss it until nearly in London — 
 Yes, Gladys, we're at my bank. Never mind — probably 
 rubbish." He hung up the receiver. 
 
 “ Taken when I was locked up," said Hawtry with a 
 groan. “ Oh, you Jones — you Jones ! " Vemey smiled 
 softly. “ Oh, I know you've passed it on," yelped the 
 detective, “and that it's broken up by now. When a 
 man fancies he is clever I give things up." 
 
 Gladys Hartley rushed into the room. She was 
 followed by Peter Greer. 
 
 “ Oh, I'm so sorry," she said. “ And has that signa- 
 ture gone wrong, too ? I can't think when the necklace 
 went. I — er — was not — I was — occupied." 
 
 Peter Greer blushed. 
 
 Mr. Jones coughed in a deprecating manner. 
 
 “ To be accurate, Miss Gladys Hartley has never worn 
 the necklace," he said meekly. “ I had a rough imita- 
 tion made up hurriedly which looked quite real; the 
 turquoises were. The real necklace is here." He pulled 
 a little package out of his pocket, undid the string and 
 laid the curious piece of jewellery on the table. 
 
 Mr. Amos Mosenthal picked it up and examined it 
 carefully. 
 
MR. JONES MAKES SEVERAL MATCHES 157 
 
 “ You shall have a percentage on this, you Nap — you 
 Jones,” he said. 
 
 The bank manager wiped his forehead. 
 
 " The whole affair is very upsetting,” he said wearily. 
 
 Vemey moved his handcuffed wrists and agreed. 
 
 " Some day — you — you — sweet-pea ” he said, 
 
 licking his dry lips, and looking at Mr. Jones. 
 
 " I have outwitted one-eyed apaches, Mr. Vemey,” 
 said Mr. Jones haughtily. “Iam not afraid of a mere 
 crook.” 
 
 The bank manager hurried out of the room, feeling 
 that liquid refreshment was a necessity. 
 
 "And the other affair,” said Mr. Samuel, "carried 
 through as neatly, hey, Jones ? ” 
 
 "Well, no, sir,” said Mr. Jones, "not exactly — as I 
 wrote you when the American millionaire butted in I 
 — used my own judgment.” 
 
 " And I am engaged to Peter,” said Gladys. " Yes, 
 I know he has no money, but you have heaps, nunkies.” 
 
 Both partners looked at the firm's niece eloquently. 
 Mr. Samuel commenced a sentence and Mr. Amos Mosen- 
 thal stopped him. 
 
 " Nothing like love,” he said. " We'll have a double 
 wedding, Gladys.” 
 
 " Amos ! ” roared Mr. Samuel. 
 
 " I am going to marry Miss Hanly,” said Amos 
 Mosenthal ; " she never wants me to talk to her.” 
 
 Mr. Samuel Mosenthal smoothed his silk hat. 
 
 " I think, Amos,” he said icily, " that we might now 
 allow Mr. Jones to live in idleness and grow sweet-peas. 
 
 He — he ” Mr. Samuel choked. "He is too vast 
 
 for clerk's work," said Mr. Samuel. " He shall have a 
 house with a garden — some way out of London.” 
 
 "With a telephone,” said Mr. Jones after he had 
 gasped out his thanks, " so that the firm can call me up 
 when they are in difficulties. Good morning, Mr. 
 Verney.” 
 
 " I'm getting him away before he chokes,” explained 
 the detective, nodding at Vemey. 
 
IRISH STEW 
 
 158 
 
 Little Archibald Jones went to that double wedding, 
 and the bride, Gladys, wore a carnation of his growing. 
 He looks back on many adventures, but he seldom 
 mentions them. " Mere little episodes of duty done for 
 the firm,” says Mr. Jones. 
 
A MATCH FOR A MATCH 
 

 
 
A MATCH FOR A MATCH 
 
 P 
 
 I 
 
 ^EACE," said Desmond Bryan sourly, “ has 
 been responsible for many things/' 
 
 The quiver of August heat was on the 
 world. A sun of brass hung in limitless blue, 
 with here and there flecks of mutinous little wisps of 
 clouds, a dim hint of thunder in their dullness. 
 The gardens flared with old-fashioned flowers ; spikes 
 of scarlet gladioli, unstaked, some falling, some brilliantly 
 erect ; white peonies, blue catmint, rioting out on to 
 the grass ; poppies, self-grown, delicate as softest silk, 
 and everywhere roses climbing and tangling, their flowers 
 festooned across the dead wood which should have been 
 cut away from them. 
 
 Old Peter Doyle poked at the borders twice a year ; 
 he had no time for what he called posies. But scraping 
 as a little old rabbit might in the vastness of the garden, 
 he produced giant cabbages and cauliflowers, great pears 
 and plums, and the Ballinamona raspberries were the 
 fattest in the country. 
 
 “ Yes." Desmond kicked at a thistle. “ Peace 
 dinners and bad heads, and I don't trust Martin Stoney 
 — never did. There is something behind his ferrety little 
 eyes. And he wants Gloria for himself." 
 
 “ Yes." A girl raised her head, looking up at the 
 house. “ Yes, Desmond." 
 
 Moireen Bryan lay face down on the dry turf, her 
 hands supporting her chin. A small, plain girl with 
 masses of soft hair screwed away tightly, her only real 
 beauty soft grey eyes. 
 
162 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 Ballinamona was outlined in the sun’s blaze. An 
 imposing massive house with splendid rooms, many of 
 them empty of furniture. The Hardresses of old had 
 built lavishly. A billiard-room made glass-topped ex- 
 crescence at one side, a ball-room had been built on 
 at another, but the house itself was as a dull jewel set 
 round with brilliants. 
 
 No place in Ireland was more beautiful. A lake 
 rippled beyond the neglected rock garden. It was fed 
 by a tributary from the Garnish river, which glided or 
 rippled through the lawn. The park was surrounded 
 by masses of trees, once a complete ring, but now gaps 
 had been hewed in them to give vistas of the mountains 
 looming azure-blue in the heat. To the west a gap 
 showed a patch of bog, wild and desolate, starred with 
 white bog-cotton, gapped by black trenches. At the 
 back of the house stood a ruined castle where the 
 Hardresses had once lived, now a soft mass of clinging 
 ivy with lichened stone peering out. 
 
 “ There’s Gerald.” Moireen’s soft voice changed. 
 
 A long-legged fellow came out on the terrace which 
 runs at one side of the house, a girl in white with him. 
 They stood for a minute leaning on the rose-festooned 
 trellis, then began to stroll towards the big beech where 
 the Bryans sheltered. 
 
 “ This place is full of ants,” said Gerald suddenly; 
 “ they are all over you, Moireen, biting your scraps of 
 arms, child.” 
 
 Moireen sat up, looking fixedly at the two figures. 
 
 V If only Gerald had a stronger head and this peace 
 dinner wasn’t coming off at Shannid,” grunted Desmond. 
 “I’m afraid.” 
 
 There was everything to make life wonderful at 
 Ballinamona save a sufficient income to keep it up on. 
 Gerald’s forefathers had overhoused themselves even 
 on their large rent-roll ; the land court had pinched here 
 and sliced there, wages had gone up and rents down 
 until Gerald farmed not for amusement but in a grim 
 struggle to live ; he now bred and sold horses for the 
 
A MATCH FOR A MATCH 
 
 163 
 
 same purpose. Four years in France had ended profits 
 in farming, everything had gone wrong in his 
 absence, and during his leave he had complicated 
 matters by romance. The Hagans, rich Americans 
 of Irish extraction, had bought Castle Bellew, and come 
 to live in the county. Gloria Hagan was tall and fair, 
 with hard, bright blue eyes and wonderful golden hair, 
 and Gerald adored her. 
 
 But Poppa Hagan, hard-bitten and worldly wise, 
 desired greater things for his daughter. He possessed 
 the transatlantic admiration for titles, and the amount 
 of money which he settled upon Gloria was to be deter- 
 mined not by her needs but by her successes. 
 
 Yet Gloria was obstinate and in love, and Ballinamona 
 was very beautiful. Gerald knew that he had a chance. 
 Inset, as the illustrations of theatrical stars put it, was 
 Martin Stoney, next heir to the Glendalough title, unless 
 his old uncle married again, and Gloria's constant admirer 
 when Gerald was away. Martin had been very busy 
 during the years of war, but he had not gone to fight. 
 
 A nasal voice remarked that it was some summer, 
 and James P. Hagan, elderly and brick-coloured, came 
 from the shaded walk leading to the garden. 
 
 He dropped his lean form on to an old bench built 
 round the tree, and studied the house. 
 
 " Done up, yew couldn't beat it," he said. "And 
 with conservatories in the garden and carpet-bedding, 
 and that old idiot Peter pensioned, you couldn't beat 
 the garden either." 
 
 Old Peter had come padding behind the millionaire, 
 bringing raspberries for tea. A great cabbage leaf piled 
 up with golden and crimson fruit. 
 
 "Told me he didn't hold with set posies," growled 
 Mr. Hagan. "That flowers should be flowers and not 
 quare patterns." 
 
 " Let ye have a care of that bench," said Peter, putting 
 his raspberries on a rustic table. " It is not mended this 
 tin year," he added, " an' very delicate in parts." 
 
 James Hagan was lean, but heavily made. He moved. 
 
164 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 and the dosed wood crumbled, letting him down between 
 the tree-trunk and the still sound outer ring of the seat, 
 where he got firmly wedged. 
 
 “ I counselled Masther Gerald a year ago to shlap 
 in new bits of trees/' said Peter dispassionately. " Aisy, 
 sir, there's a wopsies' nesht below the roots ; let ye 
 kape quiet." 
 
 At this speech, and the inarticulate roar which came from 
 the struggling man, Gerald put his handkerchief into his 
 mouth, and became as helpless as the captured American. 
 
 A stream of outraged wasps rushed forth singing in 
 nasty cadence. One came straight at Desmond and stung 
 his nose, and James Hagan shrieked for help. 
 
 " Pull me out. Kick that front rung away. God, 
 they're all round me ! I shall be stung to death, 
 Bryan ! " 
 
 “ I am exceedingly badly stung myself, " said Desmond 
 huffily, patting his nose. 
 
 " If he was sthout he would be annear a plecty fit," 
 said Peter, still gazing calmly. “ If ye thrun plenty 
 parrafine ile on the wopsies, Misther Desmond, it is good, 
 they says. An' set light to it. Ye could pull him out 
 then with plenty shmoke arround." 
 
 Moireen recovered herself and ran into the cloud of 
 annoyed wasps. Catching the old man's hands, she 
 pulled hard just as Gerald came to the tree. 
 
 Gloria shrieked “ Poppa " as she ran away. The 
 outer rail gave, and James Hagan, striking out in the 
 blind way mankind does when surrounded by wasps, 
 rushed to a box-bush and took cover. 
 
 " He will cool there," said Peter, stumping off. 
 
 Peter's malignant eye told that he had heard Hagan's 
 remark about old idiots. 
 
 When the wasps went home and Mr. Hagan was per- 
 suaded to come to another tree, his remarks were pungent. 
 
 " Not mending seats, things one sat on. Wasp nests ! 
 when cyanide was to be procured ! " James Hagan 
 was ruffled. 
 
 "The only man who suffered being me, "said Desmond, 
 
I 
 
 A MATCH FOR A MATCH 165 
 
 nursing his nose. " How many noses have I got, 
 Moireen ? " 
 
 Moireen counselled the blue-bag, and her cousin went 
 to get it. Gerald apologised incoherently. 
 
 " Not so muchlackof timber and nails as forgetfulness, " 
 he said. " Peter did tell me, or I told Peter/' 
 
 Mr. Hagan said " Ireland ! " in tones as bitter as the 
 song of the wasps. He drank the tea which Lyons, the 
 old butler, brought out, and enlarged on carelessness. 
 
 “ But with money and work " — he emphasised work 
 — " the place could be made charming." 
 
 Gerald's face lost its worried look, and took an 
 expectantly nervous expression. "Here's Martin," he 
 muttered. 
 
 " But of course you so stupidly let all your farm go,' 
 Hagan grunted crossly. "No place for cattle." 
 
 "Martin bought the low meadows," said Gerald, 
 " my fattening land. Come and see the horses." 
 
 Martin Stoney had heard Hagan's remark, his eyeslight- 
 ing quickly. 
 
 They strolled to the vast old yard, half of it crumbling 
 to decay. But here again one could see that its size 
 pleased Hagan. 
 
 " With electric light," he said, " and water turned on 
 — a fine yard. And with proper grooms." 
 
 " Patsy is Peter's grandson," said Gerald. Voices 
 rose outside — Peter's and another. 
 
 " I counselled him, Patsy, an' he wouldn't be said 
 be me. Into the wopsies' nesht he wedged himself, 
 nice and aisy, with a face so bitther on him, I declare 
 to God the craythurs were afeared, an pasht him to 
 sthing Mister Desmond." 
 
 " Cripes ! " said Patsy, seeing his master. 
 
 Mr. Hagan's bricky complexion deepened to scarlet. 
 He looked furiously at the old archway. 
 
 Gerald had several horses getting ready for the horse 
 show. He showed them to Gloria, who admired them 
 all. 
 
 " Gloria. " Gerald had taken her into a dark old 
 
1 66 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 loose-box to look at a shelly-brown mare. " Gloria, 
 I wonder if your father . . ." Gloria sighed quickly. 
 
 " If . . . we . . . and afterwards he'd forgive us," 
 whispered Gerald. 
 
 I could never do that, " said Gloria quickly. “ Never, 
 Gerald." 
 
 Gerald wished that for a moment the girl had not 
 reminded him of her father. Her face had hardened 
 and grown shrewd. He sighed, too. 
 
 “ If I had more land ... I really believe," he mut- 
 tered. “ Yes, Martin, Napoleon is in that stable. Mind 
 him." 
 
 This, as a chestnut head came over a half-door, teeth 
 bared, and with a screeching whinney of wrath. 
 
 " Nap," said Gerald. " Nap, old boy." 
 
 The chestnut head promptly rubbed itself against 
 his arm. Gerald opened the door, calling to Patsy for a 
 bridle. Napoleon was a great raking chestnut, thorough- 
 bred, and, until Gerald got him, hopelessly vicious. He 
 ran away ; when raced, he stood still and kicked. But 
 Gerald had bought him as a three-year-old, and managed 
 to ride the horse. In the hunting field, if another horse 
 jumped too close to him, the big chestnut was given to 
 stopping and kicking. He was a thoroughly unpleasant 
 ride at first, but a brilliant hunter. Over eight now, 
 he had idled for four years, carrying his master during 
 his brief spells of leave. 
 
 “ He could win the National, if he'd try," said Gerald, 
 patting the lean head. Napoleon bit playfully, and 
 Moireen walked up to the horse. 
 
 “ Moireen," warned Gerald quickly. But Napoleon 
 snapped again in friendly fashion, and the girl patted 
 him. 
 
 " I got him fit last autumn," she said quietly. 
 
 “ You rode this horse ! You ! Patsy let you ? ” 
 
 “ Oh, he didn't let me, but I made him ! " said Moireen. 
 " Eh, Nap ? " 
 
 " The masther'll flay the bones from me body, Miss 
 Moireen," said Patsy outside. 
 
A MATCH FOR A MATCH 
 
 167 
 
 “ Myself " — Martin kept warily clear of the chestnut's 
 heels — “ I don't believe he is so fast. Wild Rose, my 
 mare, would beat him over four miles, Gerald." 
 
 “ We'll have a match," snapped Gerald. “ Eh, Nap > 
 And send out someone to tell us where Wild Rose is when 
 I get home." 
 
 Martin's eyelids snapped. He said, “ Yes, let's " — 
 softly. “ Let's. With a good wager on, if you'd risk 
 a good one." 
 
 Gloria looked at Martin and frowned. Moireen turned 
 away from the chestnut and stared at him thoughtfully. 
 
 " What's so odd in a match ? " said Martin smoothly. 
 
 Mr. Hagan, still ruffled, stalked through the yards 
 suggesting modem improvements. 
 
 “ When I breed a good yearling," said Gerald, " I'll 
 do things, sir." 
 
 “ And dismiss those incompetent idiots," barked the 
 millionaire. “ That would be a necessity." 
 
 James Hagan was pressed to go to Martin's dinner, 
 but declined. His digestion, he explained, was very 
 precious to him. He knew what a bachelor peace dinner 
 would be. 
 
 “ Drive over to us afterwards and play bridge," sug- 
 gested Gloria. 
 
 Martin Stoney snapped his eyelids again, his crafty 
 eyes gleaming curiously. He looked at Ballinamona, 
 and the long meadows seen golden green through a gap 
 in the trees, and he smiled. 
 
 “ Gerald." Little Moireen came up to Gerald. “ Be 
 a little careful to-morrow. Martin is plotting something." 
 
 Gerald sat, rather bored through an over-elaborate 
 dinner. There were too many olives and anchovies, 
 and he did not care for champagne. Martin had a bowl 
 of cold punch, which he ladled out himself at the side 
 table. They began to argue about their horses. Gerald 
 sipped ; they all drank the punch. He wondered why 
 his tasted so strong. 
 
i6S 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 Napoleon would beat the mare anywhere. Napoleon 
 — if he would go. 
 
 Martin got him a second tumbler of punch to sip, and 
 then another. Napoleon might be as good as Gerald 
 thought him. 
 
 Through a mist he heard Martin taunting. A tenner 
 a-side, or would Gerald risk a big thing ? Wild Rose 
 was a good mare. Afraid ! Who was afraid ? Gerald's 
 head swam. 
 
 " If you're so sure — Ballinamona against the Meadow 
 Farm — five thousand forfeit if not run before six months. 
 But if Gerald funked it . . ." Of course, it was a 
 wedding present of the Farm. 
 
 Then came pens and paper. 
 
 Martin wrote carefully, and Gerald's head grew worse. 
 
 Major Hardress's chestnut gelding Napoleon, Mr. 
 Stone's brown mare Wild Rose, four miles across a 
 country to be chosen. Owners up. Martin scratched 
 out the words. He wanted someone else to ride for 
 him, and no one but Gerald could mount Napoleon. 
 
 Des, come and witness," called Gerald unsteadily. 
 " Say, my head's bad. This goo' fellow Martin's helpin' 
 me . 
 
 "Just witness this," said Martin. "We're going 
 to gallop our cracks against each other." 
 
 Desmond wrote unwillingly, his face set in suspicion. 
 Gerald did not allay his suspicions by making inane 
 remarks concerning good fellows who were giving him 
 farms, and that he was not afraid. 
 
 " He made me do it," said Martin. 
 
 Desmond, looking grave, got Gerald to his car and 
 drove him home. 
 
 II 
 
 Mr. James P. Hagan stood on the badly-gravelled 
 sweep, appraising the imposing masonry of Ballinamona, 
 while in a large bedroom the owner raved of his madness, 
 
A MATCH FOR A MATCH 
 
 169 
 
 and was listened to sympathetically by Desmond, who 
 nursed an enlarged nose and spoke as one affected by a 
 bad cold in the head. 
 
 “ Mad ! Mad ! Mad ! ” groaned Gerald. Here he 
 thumped a pillow. “ He did it all on purpose, Des.” 
 
 ‘‘You bed,” snuffled Desmond. “ Rodden chap, 
 always. Hang that wopse.” 
 
 “ I shan't dare to take Nap to Dublin. I shall be in 
 a fever of anxiety.” 
 
 “ Led you off,” suggested Desmond. 
 
 “He won't,” said Gerald. “He'll make out he's 
 doing me a favour. He . . .” 
 
 “Mr. Hagan is waitin' on ye below, Major,” said 
 Lyons, coming in. “ So I brought a bottle of sody wather 
 to sthraighten your honour, Masther Gerald.” 
 
 Lyons spoke with a blend of love, blame and sorrow, 
 dominated by love. 
 
 “ He is takin' a kind of measure around the house,” 
 said the old man, “an' mutterin'.” 
 
 Gerald drank the soda-water quickly. Without 
 Ballinamona he knew that his chances were nil. His 
 big place was worth endowing. He was too proud to 
 plead with crafty Martin ; it would not further his 
 cause to say that he was hopelessly drunk. 
 
 “ That punch was doped,” he muttered. 
 
 “ He put champagne instead of water or milk into 
 yours, probably,” snuffled Desmond. “ Keep quiet 
 about it.” 
 
 But it was not kept quiet. Martin whispered it, 
 Desmond groaned over it. Martin came laughing, point- 
 ing to the rich strip of pasture land. 
 
 “My wedding-present, old chap,” he said. And 
 Gerald gritted his teeth. 
 
 Napoleon was a smasher, but smashers fail. Gerald 
 went up to the Horse Show in low spirits, leaving 
 Napoleon behind. Gloria greeted him coolly there. 
 
 “Were you mad,” she said, “to wager our only 
 chance ? ” 
 
 “Sure to win,” said Gerald. “Nap can lose that 
 
 F* 
 

 170 IRISH STEW 
 
 mare. Oh, Gloria, can't yon understand that I was 
 mad ! ” 
 
 Miss Hagan replied that she understood perfectly. 
 She was expensively dressed, and looked lovely, while 
 Moireen with a sick heart crept about in almost shabby 
 white, and tried to persuade men to buy Gerald's brown 
 mare. 
 
 The Hagans had taken a house in Dublin for the week, 
 and Martin Stoney 's uncle, a hale man of sixty-five, was 
 one of their guests. 
 
 Martin throughout was the genial friend, confident 
 of defeat. But he knew that Wild Rose w r as something 
 more than smart, and he knew Naopleon's temper and 
 his tricks. 
 
 When Gerald went back to Ballinamona he grew 
 nervous. Everything depended on one horse. Napo- 
 leon might get a cough, go lame, get killed. For a time 
 he coddled the big chestnut, then he grew reckless. His 
 old merry smile came back, and he determined to trust 
 to his luck. 
 
 Old James Hagan was rather pleased. Gerald seemed 
 sure of his horse, the big farm would make a difference 
 to Ballinamona. But Gloria, with her house full of new 
 friends, was still angry. 
 
 " I must win," Gerald told her ; "and then — why, 
 it will be all right." 
 
 " You had no right to jeopardise our chance," she 
 repeated. 
 
 Gerald's eyes were very wistful, despite his brave 
 smile, as he talked to Moireen one gusty October day. 
 
 The match was fixed for a late day in November. 
 So much — so much depended on it — life itself, it seemed 
 to him. 
 
 Little Moireen patted Napoleon, her eyes wistful as 
 Gerald's. She had loved Ballinamona 's master for years, 
 and before the war people had talked of the match. 
 Then Gloria, blue-eyed, lovely, had swept Gerald off 
 his feet. And now Moireen wanted him to be happy. 
 Her own hurt hidden, she thought only of his. 
 
A MATCH FOR A MATCH 
 
 171 
 
 "That is a wayzal, that Martin Stoney," said Patsy. 
 
 * He has Donovan down odd days ridin' that mare her 
 gallops an' that same Donovan is worse than wayzals ; 
 he is a fox. There is no foul ridin' he isn't up to." 
 
 " Martin not riding himself ? " Gerald turned white. 
 Matt Donovan knew every trick of his trade. He had 
 been up many times. 
 
 The opening meet came with soft winds and pearly 
 lights, grey clouds travelling fast overhead, Gerald rode 
 Napoleon. If anything was to happen it must happen, 
 and the horse was at its best when regularly hunted. 
 
 But bad fortune, lurking, waited at the meet. They 
 found at Caherglyn Gorse, and ran across the road into 
 a deep country fenced by high banks. Gerald pulled 
 out left of hounds, Napoleon hated a crowd. The big 
 horse strode resolutely through the deep going. He 
 fenced like a cat. He fretted at checks, scent was 
 catchy, but his temper was improving with age. There 
 was a long check on the brow of the hill, close to a road. 
 Hounds spoke to it at last, and Gerald rode fast at a high 
 bushed-up gap. He heard the ominous ping as Napoleon 
 rose — felt the flounder and dropped in soft blackness. 
 As he fell Ge raid's head struck a stone, and his wrist 
 bone snapped. 
 
 Moireen caught the big chestnut ; she stood white 
 and dry-eyed as Gerald was carried to a car and driven 
 home. Then she began to shift the saddles. She rode 
 astride. 
 
 " He won't lead. I'll ride him," she said. 
 
 When Gerald came back to consciousness his first 
 thought was of his race. Would Napoleon be fit to ride ? 
 There was a time limit. He remembered some clause. 
 “ The horse is being kept fit, Gerald ; don't worry. It's 
 time enough," someone said soothingly. But they 
 did not tell him that he had jarred his spine, and would 
 not ride for many months. 
 
 Outside in the driving smother of mist Moireen was 
 galloping Napoleon. She had come over every day, 
 and the great chestnut let her mount him quietly. 
 
172 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 Martin Stoney showed his mind to Desmond. 
 
 " A bet's a bet. Gerald drove me into it. If I had 
 got knocked out he would have taken the farm. Some- 
 one must ride the horse for him, that's all, and if I win 
 I'll make it easy ; but I don't believe in that horse. 
 What's happening to him now ? " 
 
 “ He is being exercised," said Desmond coldly. 
 
 A month passes quickly. Gerald was carried down- 
 stairs and saw Moireen. He was to keep quiet. They 
 had found someone who could manage the chestnut. 
 Who ? ... he must keep quiet. 
 
 "A Bryan, a cousin of Desmond's," said Moireen. 
 " Donovan is up on the mare." 
 
 She stood pale and quiet. Napoleon was the smasher 
 Gerald thought him, and he should have his chance. 
 
 “ Martin will take the forfeit, five thousand. Where 
 could I find five thousand, Moireen ? " he said. “ Who 
 rides ? M. Bryan, you say — a cousin of Desmond's. 
 He'll mess my poor horse about." 
 
 Moireen smiled. She said the rider would turn up on 
 the day of the race, and Desmond was equally uncom- 
 municative. 
 
 The day of the match was one of purple distances, 
 with gleams of sun. Gerald, fretting sorely, was driven 
 to Cara Hill, the spot fixed on. He did not know as 
 yet why his legs dragged when he tried to stand. 
 
 The party from Castle Cara came in heavy limousines. 
 Among them Martin's uncle, Lord Glendalough, a wiry 
 man of sixty-three. 
 
 “ Looks like business," Desmond said reluctantly. 
 “ Making up to the uncle." 
 
 The course was a twisting one ; two miles out to 
 Ballinhanly schoolhouse, round that, and back over 
 holding fields below the hill. 
 
 Moireen was not pale to-day. People asked who was 
 riding the big rogue. She had kept her secret. She was 
 riding for Gerald. He would never be so mad again, 
 and happiness must come to him. 
 
 “ Who is riding, Des ? Do tell me." Gerald cursed 
 
A MATCH FORA MATCH 
 
 173 
 
 his helplessness. " Lord, I see the horse ! I knew how 
 it would be. Oh, look there ! " 
 
 Moireen looked small and plain as she threw off her 
 coat, Donovan whistling loudly when he saw his rival. 
 
 " God save us ! Are you mad ? " he said mildly. 
 " And that great gibawn of a horse. Don't do it, Miss 
 Bryan." 
 
 Nap was in a bad temper, hating the crowd . He lashed 
 out, he bit savagely if anyone came near him ; he sweated 
 as he walked. 
 
 "Now then ! " Moireen dodged clear of the ready 
 heels. She took the horse by his bridle and pulled him 
 to a bank. He reared straight almost as she landed in 
 the saddle ; he plunged, his great chestnut body rising 
 clear of the crowd, and it was then Gerald saw him. 
 
 But the girl sat like a rock. She dropped the reins 
 for a second, merely patting the strong wet neck. 
 Napoleon walked on calmly. 
 
 "Moireen," said Gerald. "Going to ride? It's 
 madness ! Stop her ! " 
 
 A small plain face was turned towards him ; he 
 caught a look which no woman had ever given him in 
 the deep grey eyes ; then Moireen waved her hand and 
 cantered up to the car. 
 
 "Here is that Bryan," she said gaily, "Desmond's 
 cousin. He'll win for me, Gerry," she whispered, " for 
 you both." 
 
 Moireen 's voice faltered a little as she looked up at 
 the Hagan's cars — and Gloria. 
 
 Mr. Hagan now declared the whole thing to be absurd, 
 and Gerald an idiot of price. 
 
 " Kind of thing a fellow who doesn't use cyanide for 
 his wasps would do," he snapped. "Hell lose the 
 match, and I hope someone else will mend the seats." 
 
 Wild Rose looked a pony beside Napoleon's sixteen- 
 three. But she was a powerful mare and trained to the 
 hour. 
 
 " Don't ride at me and I'll make it easy for you," said 
 Donovan to Moireen. " I can blind you at the game." 
 
174 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 " I'll ride away from you,” she boasted lightly, though 
 her heart was thumping. 
 
 The flag dropped. Napoleon plunged at the light 
 touch of heels on his side, then cantered off lazily. 
 Moireen put him at the first bank. Wild Rose came with 
 a rush beside him. From the commencement Donovan 
 seemed to know the big horse's failing. He would wait 
 and then sprint past him just at the fence, or scurry along 
 and pull back, and Napoleon, vexed, would not gallop. 
 Twice he threw up his head and stopped, but Moireen 
 only patted him, and he caught the mare again easily. 
 She, too, was upset by her jockey's tactics. 
 
 As they rounded the chapel Napoleon began to take 
 hold of his bits and stride along. Moireen had never 
 ridden a race ; she did not know how to make use of 
 her horse, but rather nursed him through the deep 
 going. Matt Donovan cursed softly under his breath. 
 Wild Rose was a stayer, but he knew she could not gallop 
 with the great chestnut, so it was time to do something. 
 They were coming down at a nasty comer, and he set 
 the mare going furiously. Moireen was on his left ; 
 as he came on to the fence the mare swerved across, 
 Donovan taking his whip up and slashing at her as if 
 she were refusing. Before he could pull back the whip 
 caught Napoleon twice on the head. 
 
 With a snort of sheer rage he stopped, rearing up 
 savagely, slipped into the ditch and fell ; the mare 
 slipped out over the comer and Donovan took every 
 ounce out of her as he turned. He would never be caught 
 now. 
 
 Moireen was off on the bank and up again in a second, 
 and at the fence. She sobbed as she saw the mare jump 
 a field away. But she shook her horse up at last. His 
 great stride ate the ground, the wind whistled by her 
 face, she could see the strong shoulders cut the air, feel 
 the great muscles ripple as he strode out. A lightning 
 kick at a bank, a mighty fly over water, another bank 
 cleared, a low stone wall, and the run in. 
 
 Thunder of the chestnut straining every nerve, with 
 
A MATCH FOR A MATCH 
 
 175 
 
 the girl just holding him together and urging him with 
 her knees, nearer, nearer still to the man in front. A 
 hoarse roaring of voices from the hill close up at the 
 wall. 
 
 Donovan turned, cursing. His mare was stone cold ; 
 he knew it. He took his whip again, flourishing it as 
 he saw the white-blazed nose rushing up behind him. 
 But Moireen steered wide ; she came to quarter, to girth, 
 the mad glory of racing going as wine to her brain — to 
 shoulder, for a second gallant little Wild Rose made an 
 effort under the whip. Nose and nose for a brief space, 
 then the big head clear. Shouts and screams and 
 frantic hurrahs ; clear above the din old Peter's voice. 
 
 “ She has the wayzul bate ! Great, great ! " 
 
 The white post flitted ; Moireen pulled up trembling, 
 then looked across the sea of faces to one in a car — 
 Gerald's. Then she rode in. 
 
 Catch-weights over twelve stone had meant two stone 
 of lead. She trembled until they weighed her. Martin 
 Stoney was still busy using language to his jockey. 
 
 “ To be bested by a girl ! Not to hit the horse sooner 
 from behind or somewhere." 
 
 “ She came like a whirlwind ; and I declare to God 
 I am pleased she beat me — the brave little thing I " 
 said Donovan sourly. “ Don't blackguard me, or I'll 
 say what you offered me to do a dirty trick." 
 
 “ How did he foul you at the comer ? " — Desmond 
 was putting on Moireen 's coat. " Slipped in front 
 and took his whip out, did he ? He had his orders," 
 slid out Desmond. “ But you've done it, Moireen." 
 
 Brief glory of triumph ! — a plain little girl, a heroine, 
 and then what ? As chill falls quickly after overheating, 
 Moireen Bryan realised that her score would be wiped 
 out when Gerald's engagement was announced. 
 
 “ Glory to ye, miss ! He bate the wayzul," said old 
 Peter. " Tin shillin' I won, miss, thanks to God an' 
 your honour. They laid heavy agin Napoleon an* a 
 gerril above on him." 
 
 “ I'd do more for Mr.f_ Gerald," said Moireen. 
 
176 IRISH STEW 
 
 Peter said darkly there were others that would not, 
 and stumped off. 
 
 Napoleon, his ears back, was led to the motor, and 
 Gloria and Lord Glendalough went across. Martin 
 following them, his face furrowed by anger, his voice 
 over-genial. 
 
 “ It was only a joke ; Ld never have held him to it,” 
 he explained. “ Ld never have let it go to this theatrical 
 affair of Moireen riding a race.” 
 
 Gerald patted Napoleon tenderly. 
 
 " Good joke ! ” he said drily. “ Well, I don't hold 
 you to your part of it, Martin. Winning is glory 
 enough.” 
 
 Miss Hagan blinked sharply ; her father gasped. 
 
 “ S'pose it's for Martin's sake she's got his uncle 
 down,” said Desmond to Moireen. “Child, you're 
 shivering. Hot coffee immediately ; and Gerald wants 
 me. Come after me.” 
 
 But little Moireen slipped to her pony-trap and drove 
 away alone. The November day was dulling to its 
 long night, the soft lights fading, and a drizzle of mist 
 commencing. Moireen pulled up at the brow of the hill 
 to look back. People were still lunching, but hoods 
 were being put up. She saw Desmond get into Gerald's 
 car. 
 
 " They are going back to Castle Cara,” she said ; but 
 the car took the road to Ballinamona. 
 
 November slipped to December, January's chill hands 
 gripped the world ; the match was forgotten, and no 
 fresh news stirred the little Irish county. The Hagans' 
 house was always full of people, and Gerald grew better 
 slowly. He had quite refused to take the farm . Moireen 
 often rode Napoleon to hounds, the great brute going 
 quietly for her. She saw Gerald on hunting evenings, 
 so as to tell him of the day, but she winced when he 
 thanked her for winning his match. 
 
 Moireen grew thinner during that winter, her grey 
 eyes looked too big for her small face. 
 
 March gave out his blustering promise of spring. 
 
A MATCH FOR A MATCH 
 
 177 
 
 Hot sun and chill winds parched the earth, and the last 
 meet was over. 
 
 Moireen rode Napoleon home along dusty roads to 
 find Gerald sitting out in a sheltered corner. Daffodils 
 waved golden and cream, scarlet anemones slashed the 
 green, and the promise of spring was softly given in the 
 shelter of the garden wall. Gerald could walk now 
 slowly. 
 
 “ There was no scent, and vixens in two coverts. I 
 came home." Moireen looked very tired. “ You look 
 
 Gerald, is it all right at last — settled ? I saw the 
 
 Hagans' car driving away. " 
 
 “Yes, it is settled up," he said dully. “Quite, 
 little Moireen." 
 
 “ I am so glad, Gerald ! The place — will — be lovely." 
 Her voice came in jerks. “ Yet, somehow, I like it as 
 it is, with the little crumbles I've always known, the 
 seats one cannot trust. You remember the wopses' 
 nests ? " 
 
 Gerald laughed. 
 
 “ And old Hagan doubled up, and Peter." 
 
 A touzled grey head rose from the cabbages. 
 
 “ He said I was an ijit," said Peter, in dignified tones ; 
 “ so the sorra a pull I gave him out." 
 
 Peter disappeared again ; he was grubbing up weeds. 
 
 “ And " — Gerald laughed again — “ yes, Gloria is 
 going to marry old Glendalough. She came to tell me 
 herself to-day. He has three places, and money in oil 
 shares, Moireen." 
 
 “ Gerald ! " Moireen 's voice sounded scared. 
 
 “ So you didn't do — well, what you thought you'd 
 do when you risked your life on Nap ? And — I don't 
 believe I should like conservatories and hot baths for 
 the horses, and " 
 
 “ Childther's nonsense ! " came faintly from the 
 cabbages. 
 
 “ I " Moireen stopped. 
 
 “ You come here to me. I can only crawl, and don't 
 cry," said Gerald firmly. “ Moireen, when I saw you 
 
178 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 go out that day something fell from my eyes. I saw the 
 real Moireen. So if she'll take me — you rode a match 
 to make a match, after all." 
 
 Moireen could recall now the bitter-sweet of her win. 
 
 Peter stood up among the cabbages. 
 
 “ Praises be to the Hivins above ! " he said, quite 
 unashamed of having listened, “ that Masther Sthoney 
 with all his plots upsot in the ind. Katie Hanratty, 
 me great niece, toult me he had a special tumbler of 
 sthrong drink ready for the masther. She saw him, an' 
 she's bringin' coffee. Ould Peter 'll go on growin’ 
 raspberries now. I wish ye joy, the pair of ye ! " 
 
 “ But " gasped Moireen. 
 
 “ That's all right. Peter accepted for you. Help 
 me in, please," said Gerald. “ Peter's eyes are too sharp 
 out here." 
 
CON CASSIDY’S STAGEEN 
 

CON CASSIDY'S STAGEEN 
 
 “ TT "W A VENT ye got the ould stageen ? " said 
 
 I I Purcell, in dissatisfied accents. “ I looked 
 
 | to ye for four or five at the least, Con, an’ 
 only two ye have for me.” 
 
 Con Cassidy, lean, hard-bitten, of uncertain age, 
 limped across the yard with a dejected bay horse trailing 
 in his wake. " What great hurry have ye for them ? ” 
 he said, in his slow way. " Is it war horses ye're buying, 
 Mr. Purcell, already ? ” 
 
 Andrew Purcell, an elderly man, tanned to leathery 
 grey, with a tinge of deep whisker edging his obstinate- 
 looking jawbone, shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 He had an order for some surely, an' he was hard 
 pressed with the small price the Government was allow'n' 
 — hard pressed — so he wanted all he could, an' they 
 raysonable. 
 
 Con Cassidy rubbed his mop of hair thoughtfully. 
 
 “ There's the bay at twinty-five,'' he said; " bein' 
 fresh off grass with his hind shoes off ye wouldn't notice 
 the way he wipes his ankles ; he'd be fifty- five but for 
 that. An' the black mare, a good useful sort she is ; 
 an' the horse I will not sell, for I musht have one to carry 
 me to the hounds ; an' that is all, Mr. Purcell.'' 
 
 Andrew Purcell opened the door of a foul-smelling 
 stable. Here, poised on a heap of manure stood a fairly 
 good-looking bay horse, elderly, but showing no great 
 signs of work. A fine-looking charger, in fact. 
 
 Dan Purcell was striving every nerve to make a fortune. 
 Fate had ordained that one of the buyers at Ballymacmere 
 should be a young and unwise officer, who, in his zeal, 
 bought in feverish haste and gave top prices. Here was 
 
i8a 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 chance to dash round the country before wiser men 
 came into it and bought up everything. He had got a 
 commission for as many horses as he eould find. 
 
 “ ril buy this one/' said Purcell briskly. 
 
 But Con Cassidy had two brothers in the Army. 
 He shook his head. 
 
 “ Sthaggers," he said briefly — "sthaggers. I am 
 toult ye have but to howld a beefsteak up to the sun 
 beyond there an' 'twill cook ; when he got the hate on 
 his head down he'd come. I works him in the early 
 mornin's an' at nights, an' he'll do in winther, but not 
 now, even in the car." 
 
 Mr. Purcell suggested that with the noise of the can- 
 nonading the horse might probably be too frightened 
 to get staggers. Cassidy shut the door carelessly but 
 with finality. 
 
 He was to bring in the horses next morning to Purcell s 
 yard, or they might be sent for. 
 
 The stageen took advantage of the door being closed 
 but not latched to rush into the yard. He trotted across 
 with good free action, head and tail up. 
 
 Purcell grunted to himself ; he looked thoughtful. 
 
 Presently Cassidy strolled up the village ; he returned 
 to saddle the staggerer and ride out to see a cousin of his 
 who lived near the gorse cover of Rahea. 
 
 Autumn peace lay on the world. It was impossible 
 to realise that civilised men were preparing to kill each 
 other ruthlessly to satisfy a crazy despot's love of Power. 
 The War Lord had built, at a huge price, a great engine, 
 and to show the reason for its cost he must use it. Its 
 wheels would be oiled with blood, its radiator refilled 
 with women's tears, but its use would be proved. 
 
 Con Cassidy did not get as far as thinking this out. 
 What he said to himself was : “ It is the devil's own 
 nonsense an' a crool pity, with the country so fine and 
 prosperous, an' Marty anear to his discharge." But he 
 sighed. Marty was a pet brother. 
 
 Davey, the cousin, was out on the lonely little streak 
 of road and greatly excited. 
 
CON CASSIDY'S STAGEEN 
 
 183 
 
 " There isn't an ould baste in the counthry that 
 Purcell isn't buyin' up, an' Maher helpin' him," he said. 
 He was around up to Ballingyle and back to Knocka- 
 murry. Me own ould grey is gone an' he eighteen, but 
 there's work in him. An' Conner's mare, an' she stone 
 blind — God save us ! — and Cloghessy's two old cobs, 
 one is hurted in the back ; an' that bay he has that is 
 parrot-mouthed an' cannot ate rightly, an' Neil's pony 
 mare that is a heaver. If there's war in it," said Con's 
 cousin, "they need not wait for the Germans to kill 
 them that has some of them craythurs betune their 
 knees." 
 
 As Con rode back again to the pretty village which 
 he lived in, he thought again that it was a poor game, an' 
 that Kaysir a upsthart of a king. Riding in the warm 
 dusk past Gowla woods he saw Mikky Maher, a neigh- 
 bour, on the road. 
 
 " Good evenin' kindly," said Con Cassidy. 
 
 Mikky Maher returned greeting absently ; he seemed 
 put out. "The spotty horse is gone on me," he said, 
 " an' all me tin acres out, Con ; if the river rises I am 
 done out. Ye have no use for that one, sell him to me. 
 Sure I knows his complaint, but meself an' Michael 'd 
 do the carting through the nights when 'tis cool, an' I'll 
 give ye a tin -pound note for him." 
 
 This was far more than Con had paid. He ruminated. 
 At any minute the staggerer might become worse and 
 completely useless. 
 
 " I will take twelve," he said slowly, and to his 
 astonishment Mikky Maher agreed without demur. 
 Con walked home with saddle and bridle on his arm. 
 
 Next day the matter of buying was taken over in 
 earnest. Men who were out — not to make profit by risk- 
 ing men's lives, but to pay fair prices for useful horses — 
 took it up ; the flow of the maimed, the halt and the blind 
 was checked. Con got a job to " carry in," so he termed 
 it, two horses to the Barracks. 
 
 Here his eyes were greeted by the sight of " misfor- 
 tunes," as he called them, standing about. And among 
 
184 IRISH STEW 
 
 the good ones his own old staggerer, looking handsome 
 and fit. j 
 
 “ That was a dirthy thrick," said Con, quietly. For 
 a moment he looked at the remount officer, then he 
 thought of the scandal, and, being Irish, he held his 
 tongue. But he enlarged on it to his cousin next day, 
 and he asked a friend of his how much the horse had c 
 fetched. He learnt that his own two had been resold , 
 for forty apiece, but that the bay horse had fetched , 
 sixty. 
 
 “ Purcell is making a fortune/' said his informant. { 
 
 “ Whatever chanse ye'd have to git away if ye had the j 
 convayneance undther ye," said Con, “what chanse 
 'd ye have with one of them misfortunes, and ye thryin' J 
 to gallop off ? " 
 
 Con Cassidy imagined the war to be a perpetual fox- 
 chase, with the quickest man the safest. 
 
 He delivered his horses, gazed contemptuously at the 
 “misfortunes," and sorrowfully at the staggerer, which 
 went by the name of “ Shaky," and he met Mr. Dan 
 Purcell at the gate. That worthy was looking greyer 
 than usual ; he held a crumpled letter in his hand. 
 
 “ There's my Danny, 'listed in the cavalry," he roared 
 out. “An' having been a trooper in the Irish Horse, 
 he says he'll get out with the first lot. An' I makin' 
 money for him here." 
 
 He was talking half to himself. The one soft spot in 
 Dan Purcell's flinty old heart was Danny, the somewhat 
 over-gentlemanly son, who rode perfectly and only wanted 
 money to “ hold his own with the best," his father said. 
 Money. It had poured in for three golden days. There 
 was enough now to buy the farm next to their own, to 
 mend up the stables, or to put in a thoroughbred mare 
 or two. Money to make a start, coined by risking the 
 lives of men. Young Danny should be a gentle- 
 man. 
 
 “ Some money is quarely come by," said Con Cassidy 
 in his slow voice, and he looked back at the distant 
 silhouette of the staggerer. 
 
CON CASSIDY'S STAGEEN 185 
 
 He guessed now. Purcell had sent Mikky Maher to 
 buy the horse, giving him a commission. 
 
 Con went out by the train. He thought slowly and 
 > forgave at the same rate. 
 
 “Ways 'll come," said Con, as he slouched home, 
 where he met Maher rushing frantically to the post 
 office, because Martin, his only son, had disappeared, 
 and left a letter to say he would 'list. “ With him all I 
 have an' the hay to be got in, an' scarce a sowl to lend 
 me a hand but them I'll hire," wailed Maher, “ an' her- 
 self at home with her apern over her head an' she bawlin' 
 that the bye is dead already, that thim Germans can 
 skhim through the air as well as over the land and kill 
 ye above an' below. She saw it on the Indepindent ." 
 
 “ Ye worked him hard," said Con, laconically. “ An' 
 ye were choosin' a wife for him." 
 
 “A fine stheady gurrl, with a fortin' of her own," 
 cried Maher. “ A casht in her eye ? Who'd be noticin' 
 eyes afther a year, an' that she can see to make tay and 
 fry mate ? Yerself an' ye're nonsense, Con ! " 
 
 “I seen the staggerer inside," said Con stolidly. 
 “ Himself an' a few others ye an' Purcell got through. 
 Ye were too clever for me, Mikky, that time, but ye 
 might be sorry yit." 
 
 When the weeding out began complaint was made 
 that an over-allowance of incapables came from Bally- 
 macmere. But the blind and the very infirm only cost 
 the Government money ; they did not go out to cost men 
 their lives. 
 
 The frauds, after a time, reached their shipping port, 
 were packed tightly on troop ships to go to France. 
 The stageen, smart and active-looking, was welcomed 
 by the King's Own Thunderers — hussars with a reputa- 
 tion which they were keeping up. 
 
 Ireland read the papers and wondered. Peaceful 
 as she garnered her harvest, out on the borders of 
 Belgium there was Death's harvest . Men whose mothers 
 prayed for them lay stark by the unreaped com. Horses 
 with their legs pointed up stiffly ; the thunder of guns 
 
i86 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 and whine of shells, and the taste of gunpowder and the 
 smell of blood in mens mouths and nostrils. Flickers 
 of blue smoke from burning farms creeping up across 
 the sunlit land. 
 
 Three to one, but no one flinched. War was a medley 
 of masses of forms pouring on, falling, replaced by 
 others, climbing over their own dead. A machine 
 hurling itself against the thin line of defence, to fall back 
 shattered, beaten, but at a cost. . . . 
 
 It will be many years before England can think without 
 a thrill of the defence made by her little army on the 
 Belgian frontier. Smash England at all costs were the 
 orders, and guns played on the English ; the flower of 
 the German Army lost petals in that bloody assault, the 
 sky was red with the flame of burning villages, of little 
 Belgian homes razed by raging brutes. 
 
 The Despot who aspired to be Lord of the World 
 before he left it, was answerable for the cries of terrified 
 women, for the murder of old men, for worse. . . . 
 
 “ Pay 'em out yet, the blighters ! Oh, the rotten 
 blighters ! . . . women in front of their advance ! " — a 
 gasping Tommy sets his teeth. “ We'll roast a few of 
 them before they gets to where they'll get it for 
 nothin'. I tell ye they'll be sorry yet that they met the 
 Ballymores." 
 
 Mike Maher the younger had got out over soon. A 
 year or two in the Militia had made him knowledgeable. 
 
 The King's Own Thunderers waited in the burning 
 heat ready to charge. It had been whispered to them 
 that they would be wanted. New horses had replaced 
 their dead ones. Young Dan Purcell, black with dust, 
 full of enthusiasm, glanced pleasantly at the active- 
 looking horse assigned to him. 
 
 “ I'd seem to know that one," said Mike Maher, 
 looking at the horse. “ It might be from Ballymacmere 
 he is likely." 
 
 “ A good sort, I'd say," said young Purcell. ‘ My 
 father bought a lot an' he knows one, Mike, I tell you ; 
 but I don't call this horse to mind." 
 
CON CASSIDY'S STAGEEN 
 
 187 
 
 The cavalry moved off. Mike whistled softly. There 
 was a lull, followed by a new storm of shell and pound of 
 guns, and then a cry that a battery of guns were in 
 danger. Dashing across on them were a troop of 
 cavalry, straight on the exhausted men who were 
 isolated on a little hill. 
 
 “ Come on the Ballymores ! Save the guns ! " 
 
 Out into the inferno a handful of gallant Irishmen 
 fixed bayonets to meet the rush. The impact of mad- 
 dened horses rearing as they touched the steel, the slash 
 of sword and crack of revolver. Of the little band 
 every man down, but the English cavalry came thunder- 
 ing through the brushwood and the guns were saved. 
 Limbered up and moved back to security. 
 
 Then out among the fallen one man stirred and sat 
 up, rubbing his head. 
 
 “ Father Pat can have done with his preachin'. I 
 know all about it now/' said Mike Maher weakly. "An* 
 God save us, here's Purcell ! " Dan Purcell had ridden 
 out too far ; the bay pulled so that before he could turn 
 a swarm of Uhlans was at his heels. But he had a 
 start and he saw on the way Mikky Maher sitting up. 
 " Come on, Mikky," he roared, bending down. “ Come 
 on, fall over his back anyway. We have time enough." 
 
 Mikky dived up somehow with a grunt. The sun was 
 shining down a fiery glory of heat. And ... its rays 
 were beating on the head of Dan Purcell's horse. It 
 stopped short, shook its head wildly. 
 
 “ Go on ! Get on, ye brute ! " Dan shrieked, as he 
 kicked. 
 
 " I said I knew him. It's Con Cassidy's ould 
 sthaggerer, an' he has the fit of it got," wailed Mike 
 grimly. 
 
 From side to side old Shaky moved his head ; in a 
 moment he would be down. It was his last fit. 
 
 The swarm was over-close. A brave young Irishman 
 turned to meet the enemy, shots cracked from the 
 trenches, the sun's rays caught the glint of steel and 
 what was red dimming it. . . . 
 
i88 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 The old stageen had done his work. 
 
 Grey-faced, a man who seemed to have lost height 
 and breadth, Dan Purcell drove to the Mahers' door. 
 Someone sat there in a chair with a blanket over his 
 knees, someone who would never help with the harvest 
 again, for Mike's legs were gone. 
 
 “ Even if he had not to stop for me he was done. I 
 see th' ould divil beginning to shake his head and Dan 
 gallopin' up . . . the sun 'd roast ye there. ... It is 
 Con Cassidy that kilt us both," stormed young Mikky 
 Maher — " to sell that to the Army so that he'd make a 
 few dirty pounds." 
 
 “ Oh, my God ! " old Purcell muttered. He was a 
 very old man now. 
 
 ‘ 1 Everyone knew he had the staggers," said Mike, 
 
 “ the ould sthageen. There's them should be hung for 
 it. He cost yer son his life." 
 
 Con Cassidy was at the door, listening. He looked 
 from the face of father to father : the farmer sobbing to 
 himself, Purcell without the relief of tears. For they 
 knew. 
 
 “ I wasn't after sellin' Shaky to the King," said Con 
 slowly. “ As themselves can tell ye, Mike, boy. God's 
 thruth in it, they can tell ye how it was settled betune 
 them. Sixty pound I heard he fetched, Mr. Purcell." 
 
 Mike sat up, his eyes set grimly. He was no longer a 
 mere farm boy, but a man who had seen Death and War 
 and fighting. 
 
 “ And whatever ye med on him losht ye him," said 
 Mike bitterly, “ Mr. Dan Purcell. And me, me two good 
 legs. With a good horse we was both in aisy, for with all 
 the bushes about they'd never have hit us. An' he was 
 not the only one," went on Mike. “ A runaway grey I 
 cost a trooper his life — a grey that I knows now was 
 Mulcahy's, that no man cud ride. An' that ye knew 
 when he bought him, too." 
 
 Old Purcell stood desolate, hopeless. The balance at 
 the bank was a black thing to him now. Maher sobbed 
 
CON CASSIDY'S STAGEEN 189 
 
 on, afraid to look at the stormy-eyed woman who hung 
 over their crippled son. 
 
 " Min should think, an' they buyin' what is to carry 
 min in times of war," said Con quietly. “ Ye blamt me 
 wrong, Mike. Men should think. What use is his 
 money to him now ? " he added, watching the old man 
 with a twisted, tortured face driving slowly away. 
 
 In the comer near the fire Mikky Maher the elder 
 sobbed drearily and softly, and Mike's big young hand 
 gripped fiercely at the blanket which hid his stumps, as 
 he listened to Con Cassidy's account of how the old 
 horse got to the Army. 
 
* 
 
WHEN ROGUES FALL OUT 
 
WHEN ROGUES FALL OUT 
 
 “ "y F anyone was to ax me for apples/' said Mr. Mat 
 Sheedy bitterly, "it would be sure to be just 
 '» the hour when there were only cherries on the 
 
 A trees." 
 
 He looked hard at an open letter, read it again and 
 frowned. It ran as follows — 
 
 " General Hillyard wants a real good horse, the 
 right thing. Well bred, up to weight, fast enough to win 
 a hunter's race. I know you wou dn't have it yourself 
 but Mr. Blundell might or Mr. Rivers, so let me know. 
 He'd pay two fifty or more." 
 
 “ Bedam," said Mat heavily. Knowing it to be 
 perfectly useless, he went out to walk round his ram- 
 shackle yard. The centre was several feet deep with 
 strawy manure ; coppery and noisome pools glimmered 
 in the hollows, and behind closely-closed doors five 
 horses stood on dirty bedding, their coats shining under 
 their ragged rugs. 
 
 A grey mare, fired for curbs. A showy bay, back of 
 his knees and slack of his middle. A very good-looking 
 brown, too bad a whistler to pass even with doctoring. 
 Sheedy revi wed them in turn, grunting at each one. 
 
 “ Good enough to pass on to some brave young soldiers 
 that is active on their feet," he muttered, “ but for a 
 chaser . . . Danny, is there a blood horse anywhere 
 that could be med up ? " 
 
 G 
 
x 94 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 “ Andy Talty I heard tell bought one/' said Danny the 
 helper. 
 
 Mr. Sheedy bit a straw and not liking the flavour of it, 
 spat it out before he remarked that Andy and himself 
 were not great. 
 
 “ Frindly enough as far as the time of day goes,” he 
 muttered, " but like a badly-baked pie, he's sour 
 below.” 
 
 “ He should have the bay mare forgot be now,” said 
 Danny. 
 
 “ There is some that never forgets except to Father 
 Pat,” said Sheedy crossly. “ But if there is a horse to 
 be got . . .” Then his eyes lighted. He squelched 
 across the manure heap to pull open the door of a large 
 
 shed. 
 
 “ The Sultan ! ” he almost yelped. 
 
 “ That'll sthand one gallop an' that could be thraced 
 aisy to ye,” snorted Danny. 
 
 A splendid bay horse stood in the hot gloom. Deep- 
 hearted, well let down, with fine shoulders and a lean 
 head perfectly set on, but as he moved round he limped 
 and stood easing one of his well-shaped fore-legs. Mat 
 had bought him when he broke down a year before. He 
 had patched him up twice, but before he could show him 
 to anyone the leg had filled again. 
 
 “ I'll go across,” said Sheedy. “ I have an idee.” 
 
 He left his slated house to take a path across a brown- 
 hued patch of bog-land. The withering grasses swayed 
 in the soft October wind. The deep gaps made by the 
 cutting of the turf showed like black gashes with brown 
 pools of still water below as though the cut bog's blood 
 had gathered and lay there . A narrow road ran through 
 the desolate bog, but Mr. Sheedy picked his way through 
 the centre, sometimes skirting a patch of treacherous 
 green, jumping from tussock to tussock, or across a 
 glimmer of deep water until he reached sound ground 
 and made for a small thatched cottage standing in a 
 hollow with a few straggling trees round it. An attempt 
 
WHEN ROGUES FALL OUT 
 
 195 
 
 at a garden sent its straggling pleas to the god of flowers 
 in the front, a few Michaelmas daisies still struggling 
 through the grass and docks. 
 
 Andy Talty’s sister had once been imbued with 
 ambition to win a prize in a cottagers’ show, but had 
 married and gone away and never tried it in her new 
 
 I home, declaring flowers to be worse trouble than childer. 
 Andy was a bland little man, with a perpetually 
 greasy look, as if all his kindness had melted down and 
 oozed out over his smiling face. His voice was low and 
 sweet. The Taltys had been horse-dealers for genera- 
 tions, running together in clannish fashion when anyone 
 else was to be done, and never above selling something 
 hopeless to each other if any member of the family was 
 fool enough to buy it. 
 
 Andy had got rid of three to his astute brother Nat by 
 remarking, “ That damn brute is no use, lave him there,” 
 and shutting the stable door, thus imbuing Nat with the 
 idea that the animal in question was a treasure which 
 wanted time and skilful doctoring. 
 
 Mat Sheedy whistled to announce his arrival. Andy 
 Talty slid — he never appeared to walk — round the 
 comer of the house and nodded good evening. There 
 was the faintest trace of reserve in his greeting. 
 
 Mat Sheedy wanted, ostensibly, a harness cob for a 
 customer, with so many virtues that Andy after a look 
 at a grey roman nose stuck out over a half-door re- 
 marked thoughtfully that Mat had better be lookin’ on 
 the Elishan Fields for what he wanted, for the likes of it 
 was not on earth. 
 
 “ Unless ye could take a bit of action here and manners 
 there an’ blend up a horse,” said Andy, “ and paint him 
 over with a price of two hundred guineas the ways the 
 big dealers disguises what they wants to sell. For fifty 
 pound what ye want isn’t made, carrin’ all the week and 
 st handin’ at Mass on Sundays, Mat.” 
 
 “ Thinkin’ ye might have one I gave ye the pre- 
 ference,” said Mat, swallowing benevolently. 
 
IRISH STEW 
 
 196 
 
 “ Ye'd always be the one to try to do me the good 
 turn,” returned Andy simply. “ I have a good grey 
 drivin' cob there, but he is only an or'nary cob just 
 quick to harness, with a shy an' a heiss (kick) at the back 
 of his mind. Will ye step inside, Mat ? ” 
 
 They walked into the stuffy back parlour, which 
 smelt of mahogany and whisky, and a decanter was 
 produced. 
 
 Mat drank some of the fresh and fiery spirit, and ate 
 biscuits. Since it is always polite to eat with a guest, 
 Andy took tea. 
 
 They talked amicably of hunting and horses. Of the 
 gaps made by the war, and the difficulty of producing 
 the right stuff. 
 
 Ana then Mat pulled out his letter. “ Look what I 
 could get if I had me eye on the horse — an' a bit of 
 profit to divide with the man who found him for 
 me.” 
 
 Andy's blue eyes lit up. He knew that Mat had 
 come over for a reason. He read the letter care- 
 fully. 
 
 “ There's ye'r black mare,” he said, “ or the 
 bay.” 
 
 “ From what is in the letter,” said Mat, " the man has 
 the appearance of knowing a good horse. Betune 
 friends, Andy, them two horses must go to buyers that'll 
 be taken with coats and ginger. Boys have a great 
 passion on tails,” he finished emphatically, “ Great 
 
 entirely. But ” he leant across the table . “ There's 
 
 the Sultan.” 
 
 “ That ye bought in open auction, a well-known race 
 horse,” said Andy crisply. 
 
 “ He might aisily have died on me be now or gone 
 to farrum work,” said Mat. “ Only ould Danny knows 
 of him now. I have no helper. I could not be sellin' 
 the Sultan, but if I heard tell of a frind of mine had a 
 great blood hunter, an brought the General here. Blood 
 hunters bought in fairs break down, and no word to be 
 
WHEN ROGUES FALL OUT 
 
 197 
 
 said. An' — there is a hundred pound in it, Andy, for 
 ye'r trouble/' 
 
 The fire in Andy's eyes brightened, the kindly look 
 deepened on his face. He seemed to simmer in an oil 
 bath of kindliness. 
 
 Mat went on talking. The bog road was almost de- 
 serted, a hooded sheeted horse could slip along it in the 
 dark unseen by anyone . Andy could give out that he had 
 a good thoroughbred not on view. In fact Danny had 
 heard that he had one. 
 
 The two talked it over, Andy simmering softly, and 
 finally Mat Sheedy, smiling, hurried back across the bog, 
 to take out a sheet of flimsy paper, and pen an elaborately 
 careful letter. 
 
 “ A friend of his had the very thing. A big blood 
 horse, bay, sound and a great lepper. Seven year 
 old, fast as motor cars. The pedigree was unbeknownst, 
 but it was stamped on the horse, and if the buyer was 
 knowledgeable, he'd know any pedigree was but the twist 
 of a tongue. The horse could be ready to be seen in a 
 week or so, or any day." 
 
 The matter ran on oiled wheels. Guinane, the big 
 dealer, communicated with his client, mentioning the 
 fact that Sheedy had spotted two or three high priced 
 horses for him in his time. The Sultan, renamed Tally 
 Ho, had his leg boiled and reboiled until the doubtful 
 tendon lay flat and fine. He was put over a couple 
 of banks. Mat thanking a kindly God above when the 
 tendon still held, and finally one dark night the Sultan 
 went as a sheeted ghost along the road to Ballina to be 
 received by Andy Talty in person and stabled in the 
 biggest loose box. 
 
 On the following day General Hillyard arrived in a 
 motor car, accompanied by Guinane, a ferrety-looking 
 youth with marvellous breeches and gaiters, and a dia- 
 mond horseshoe pin in his tie. 
 
 They looked as in duty bound at Sheedy's horses, 
 the General praising them all with the heartiness of a 
 
IRISH STEW 
 
 198 
 
 man who knew he would never own them, until he saw 
 the whistling brown and this he offered to buy for a 
 friend if it jumped well. 
 
 The brown having acquitted himself perfectly over 
 the banks all round, flown a stone wall and hopped a 
 stick, Mat parted with him for a price which left no 
 room for profit, being anxious, as he said inwardly, to 
 put a smooth glaze on things. 
 
 They then spun over the narrow bog road with its 
 yawning ditches cut clear on either side, and the marks 
 of the Sultan's hoofs deep in the grass at the right. 
 
 Andy received them blandly. Yes, he had a great 
 blood horse. He had bought him in a fair at Galway. 
 Pedigree ? 
 
 “ They gave me one from Eclipse downtoRoi Herode," 
 said Andy, chuckling sweetly, “ but I could give 
 as good a one meself and make it more modem like. 
 ‘ There isn't a grey hair on him,' says I, when the owner 
 rowled out Roi Herode 's name. ‘ There is a white 
 patch on his quarter,' says he, an' there he had me." 
 
 General Hillyard smiled discreetly. 
 
 Andy was benevolence from head to heel, coupled 
 with a carelessness which made Mat Sheedy nervous. 
 What if his ally should sell him by neglecting to stupe 
 the Sultan's leg ? He shivered slightly as the horse's 
 box was opened. 
 
 “ Hatchin a chill yer are, Mat ? " said Andy sym- 
 pathetically, “ or they do be sayin' them shivers is a 
 sign of a troubled conscience, but Mat Sheedy wouldn't 
 have that same." 
 
 The door swung to show the Sultan, now named Tally 
 Ho, littered to his powerful hocks in golden wheat straw. 
 His skin threw off a bloom. He had been fattened with 
 discretion so as not to look soft. 
 
 As he was wheeled round Mat saw the look on Hill- 
 yard's face which means that all was right. 
 
 The big bay was a model of what he would have been, 
 a high-class chaser. 
 
WHEN ROGUES FALL OUT 
 
 199 
 
 He was taken out and cantered, his smooth level stride 
 eating the level field ; he acquitted himself well over 
 two banks, a few gaps and a wide trench, and Guinane 
 examined him. 
 
 Mat's teeth gritted a little as the dealer's hand fluttered 
 over the bad tendon. 
 
 “ Seems a little full," he said. 
 
 “ He is short of work," said Andy carelessly, “ an' 
 we done a lot of leppin' with him yestherday." 
 
 As the horse was galloped for his wind, General Hill- 
 yard stood admiring him. 
 
 " He is exactly what I've been looking for," he said 
 blithely. "Too good just to chaise foxes on over 
 here." 
 
 Then the Generatl went on to enlarge on various buys 
 and one or two unfortunate occurrences. 
 
 " I never overlook being cheated," he satid. “ One 
 or two people who have had me have been sorry for it 
 afterwards. I tell you, Sheedy, for I follow things 
 up." 
 
 Mat Sheedy said emphatically that them that 'd do a 
 dirty trick deserved what they'd get, and he did not 
 like the way in which Andy nodded. 
 
 There was nothing to do but write the cheque. Two 
 hundred and eighty pounds. Andy had altered the 
 price, and Mat was wondering whether he would dare 
 to try and keep the extra money. 
 
 “ We can drop you," said Guinane. Mat felt that it 
 was better to go. He was thanked by dealer and pur- 
 chaser and the rest of his afternoon was taken up by 
 riding the whistling brown to the station, seeing him 
 off with the splendid Sultan, who stepped into his box 
 quite sound. 
 
 The next morning was fresh and fair. Light clouds 
 played teg with a west wind scurrying merrily across a 
 playground of blue. Mat rode his grey to Ballina, and 
 slipped off lightly to greet Andy, who was blistering a 
 big bay two-year-old. 
 
200 
 
 IRISH STEWL 
 
 Mat looked round to see there were no listeners. 
 
 " Well, that was great/' he said happily. 
 
 " I think the gentleman liked his horse," said Andy 
 blandly. " Did ye want anythin', Mat ? " 
 
 " I came for the money," said Mat in surprise, " the 
 hundred and eighty. It was a great deal for ye, Andy." 
 
 Andy getting up, said, " The money for what ? " 
 as he absently wiped his tingling hands. 
 
 " For the Sultan," said Mat. " For selling me horse." 
 Andy Talty shook his head, a puzzled air veiling his 
 benevolence. 
 
 " For me horse," snapped Mat. "The horse that 
 come over. The horse ye sowlt to the General." 
 
 " What horse I sowlt to the General ? " said Andy, " a 
 horse called Tally Ho. There is a racehorse called the 
 Sultan. Didn't I hear ye name the bay I parted with 
 Tally Ho yerself, Mat Sheedy ? Maybe Danny dropped 
 the Sultan in a boghole," said Andy. "He havin' a 
 drop taken. I knows nothin’ of him. The only horse 
 as ye saw was Tally Ho, that nice bay, that I sowlt too 
 cheap. But bein' obliged to ye for the sale, I'd go to 
 ten pound commission Mat, and that I'll sind ye." 
 
 Mat backed away, his mouth sagging, his face crimson 
 and wet. Words failed him. 
 
 " Did ye dream ye sent that old broken chaser here ? " 
 said Andy pleasantly. 
 
 Speechless, Mat stared. He had no case. To call 
 the aid of the law would be his own damnation for ever- 
 more. 
 
 " There was the matter of a deal long ago that ye 
 beshted me in, Mat Sheedy. Did ye even spell quits, 
 me boy, and feel the letters grate on ye'r tongue ? " 
 
 " Ye dirty hound, ye've done me, "yelped Mat, leaping 
 to his stirrup. 
 
 But on his troubled way home, being an Irishman, 
 he grinned suddenly. 
 
 " Begripes, an' he did it nately," he said between his 
 ravings. 
 
WHEN ROGUES FALL OUT 
 
 201 
 
 Next day he received a dirty note enclosed in a letter, 
 which set forth that it was for commission on sale of 
 Tally Ho, to General Hillyard. 
 
 The Sultan lasted two months before he broke down, 
 Andy receiving a fervent letter of thanks for such a horse 
 and a request to find others like him. 
 
 “ It would take Mat Sheedy to do that/' said Andy 
 softly. 
 
SIR HECTOR DEVEREUX’S 
 BET 
 

 
 
 
SIR HECTOR DEVEREUX'S BET 
 
 S IR HECTOR MACNAMARA DEVEREUX rested 
 comfortably in his cabin on the Irish mail-boat 
 with no sub-conscious qualms of being sub- 
 marined, for it was before the days of war. 
 On the strength of his Grand Aunt by marriage's surname 
 having been given to him — Mrs. Macnamara had been 
 his godmother — Sir Hector always said genially that he 
 was half Irish, and had told his friends that he was going 
 to see what was partially his own country. 
 
 He was a large flabby man who when possible wore 
 spats, and being vain as to his feet, never walked with 
 complete freedom. One of His Majesty's ministers, he 
 had for years taken part in heated debates as to the 
 settling of the Irish question, — these futile arguments 
 by grown men about a land where people are ever half 
 children, too quick to follow tempting council, always 
 resentful of a guiding hand. 
 
 A fortnight before, publicly heckled by a very little 
 M.P. with a sing-song brogue, Sir Hector had lost his 
 temper and declared that it was all nonsense, — that he 
 was half Irish and understood the people thoroughly, 
 and would go over himself and return with the thing, not 
 in a nutshell, but in his head. 
 
 " For how long ? " queried the M.P., his eyes twinkling. 
 “ For ten days," boomed Sir Hector. 
 
 “ And you'll understand us thoroughly in ten days. 
 Then I'll say no more — till you come back," and the 
 member for Cara sat down smiling softly. 
 
 But he met Sir Hector outside and offered an even 
 fiver against it. 
 
 Sir Hector had often been asked to stay at Castle 
 
206 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 Cahirlish, the residence of the descendants of his great 
 aunt by marriage, and he wrote, kindly offering himself 
 as a guest. 
 
 He did not take his man, but started alone. His 
 conversation of the last two days before he left London 
 being of the mistakes made about a country which was 
 really like all other countries and merely talked up, for 
 special reasons of its politicians. 
 
 He made his farewells to a London which glittered 
 with light, whose advertisment signs wasted brilliancy, 
 whose people knew no rationing, and he travelled lapped 
 in comfort until on a grey February day the mail-boat 
 stole in to Kingstown, which was creeping to light out 
 of the morning mists. Sir Hector, who loved comfort, 
 decided to go on the second train to Cahirlish instead of 
 by the mail. He advised the change by wire, disregarding 
 the fact that Cahirlish Castle was twelve miles from a 
 village, and did not trouble to enquire when the message 
 might be delivered. 
 
 The waiter who took it glanced'aOhe direction and 
 said something about hoping that Tomsey'sbike wouldn't 
 be in the wars as usual, to which Sir Hector, half hearing, 
 asked the man if he knew Cahirlish. 
 
 " My father kep' the post-office," said the waiter. 
 " An' that's why I'm wonderin'. It is eight mile from 
 the village — easy enough if Tomsey Delane's bike is 
 right, but if it is not, you wouldn't know why shoe 
 leather was made for that felley, for he'd never walk." 
 
 Sir Hector ate his good breakfast without qualms, 
 in fact he scarcely thought of the matter. He took a 
 comer seat in a crowded train and spun onwards through 
 the lonely beauty of the Southern route, his journey 
 made pleasant by a companion, a clean-shaven middle- 
 aged man who was willing to talk about Ireland. 
 
 “ They've been telling me it's behind the times, that 
 nothing would ever make the people practical. So far 
 as I can see there is no difference in the two countries," 
 said Sir Hector. 
 
 The clean-shaven man said nothing rather expressively. 
 
SIR [HECTOR DEVEREUX'S BET 207 
 
 “ Good terms — clean hotels." 
 
 “ When you pass the' Bog of Allen/' said the other 
 man and paused — “ I'm a Country Inspector not so very 
 far from Cahirlish. We've been having a lively time. 
 Proclaimed meetings and so on — oh no, not all misman- 
 agement — just Irish natures. You'll have a long drive 
 to Miss Macnamara's." 
 
 Hector said he expected her car was all right and the 
 police officer left the train at Maryborough. He smiled 
 as he went. 
 
 Sir Hector thought that the wondrous mystic bog- 
 lands ought to be drained and reclaimed ; he said so to a 
 fellow passenger, who said, “ Drain the Bog of Allen ! 
 Might as well try to put Hades in cold storage." At 
 which Sir Hector was ruffled, and took quite ten minutes 
 before he began to explain modem drainage and its 
 wonders. 
 
 He also regretted the lack of cultivation — and open- 
 ing on that was answered by/' My good sir, think of the 
 rotten scent Plough carries, and of riding through it[! " 
 and then found himself ignored as men babbled of hunt- 
 ing. 
 
 The grey day darkened to one of drifting clouds which 
 blotted out the hill-tops and came low down, purple 
 and sullen, to fling a bandage of stinging fine rain upon the 
 earth. 
 
 It was rain which came with a raw fine cold, which 
 drifted under the door and numbed feet and hands even 
 in the shelter of the railway carriage. 
 
 Sir Hector found they were late at the busy junction, 
 into which they thundered importantly. They ran 
 on through the finest grass country in the world. As if 
 some shopkeeper of earth had unfurled a great roll of 
 mellow pasture and let it slip out flat and green, airing 
 his wondrous wares. Field upon field, already taking 
 on an emerald hue, running across the vast tableland and 
 to the dark feet of the Galtees. 
 
 It was late when Sir Hector left his warm carriage and 
 stamped his feet on a wind-swept platform as he enquired 
 
208 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 lor the West Cahirlish train. West Cahirlish was the 
 station. He then was bumped and clattered on, tired 
 and cold, until he was roused by a sing-song note — 
 “ West Cahirlish — change here for Ski bier an' the 
 Amagh line.” 
 
 Sir Hector extracted himself and signalled to the 
 porter to take his suit cases. The said porter informed 
 him very sympathetically that the milk cans had to be 
 rowled, and until the Skibier'd start, he couldn't touch 
 luggage if it was God's own. 
 
 The Minister took out his own ill-humouredly, making 
 a note of it, and as the seething platform cleared asked 
 icily that at least his things should be taken to the car 
 for Cahirlish, which was done, despite several calls for 
 Patsy O'Leary. 
 
 After two or three minutes O'Leary returned to ask 
 was it Walsh's jinnit or Dayly's ass, for them were the 
 only two outside and nayther knew anything about 
 luggage. “ Car for Cahirlish — Miss Macnamara. Davy 
 met the 1.30 and wasn't best plazed either as he missed 
 Karry Keefe's buryin'.'' 
 
 " It is tin mile,'' said the station master, “ an' more 
 maybe — with the hills that is there.” 
 
 Sir Hector checked a frantic desire to explain that 
 gradients do not affect distance, as he waited, shivering 
 in the misty dimness of the closing day, and instead spoke 
 irritably of his telegram. 
 
 ” If it were the one that come in for the Castle this 
 day,” said a voice, “ Tomsey's bike was broke an' it is 
 goin' up by the baker's cart in the morning.” 
 
 Sir Hector groaned aloud. 
 
 " In any case the coachman is sure to come back.” 
 Sir Hector stared through the narrow gate of the station 
 up a purposeless looking road diverting round the base 
 of a bare hill. 
 
 " If it is Patsy he cannot,” chimed in another voice, 
 that of a youth in check tweed bicycling suit, “ for he 
 joined in to the funeral at Knockabin, an' when I left 
 the mare was peevish with tire — I seen her ” here 
 
SIR HECTOR DEVEREUX'S BET 209 
 
 the youth flushed a ruby red and showed a marked dis- 
 position to retreat, hastily edging away as he muttered 
 something about his aunt's groceries, and eyeing Sir 
 Hector unhappily. Tomsey's bike was quite well but 
 he had wanted to go to the funeral. 
 
 The baronet was so wrapped in his sorrows that he 
 scarcely noticed the words muttered by the porter. “ In 
 me eye it was bruck, but not as ye wantin' to get to 
 Crusheen." 
 
 Sir Hector remembered this afterwards with a thrill 
 of something resemblinghorror — as he realised the manner 
 in which wires are delivered from West Cahirlish. 
 
 “ And in heaven's name shall I have to walk ? " he 
 said piteously, so oblivious at the time of any discrep- 
 ancies as to broken-down bicycles that Tomsey, his con- 
 science pricking him, took comfort and returned to him. 
 
 “ Andy Slattery's black mare," he said thoughtfully, 
 " might make it. If there is a sphot of Andy sober yer 
 honour, 111 have him here in tin minnits. But he was at 
 Crusheen an' I would not be sure I'd find even that 
 same," he said as he turned out. 
 
 The ten minutes slipped to half an hour, and Sir 
 Hector was thinking of a ten-mile walk in tight boots, 
 when a disreputable looking side car lurched and rattled 
 down the road. It was drawn by a weedy-looking 
 black mare, her coat covered with dried sweat and her 
 head hanging sullenly, the driver shouting at her as she 
 came. 
 
 Sir Hector and his suit cases being piled on to the car, 
 Andy Slattery, a blandly unsober youth with a spotty 
 face said, “ G'out of that, out, "and started at a gallop. 
 
 Sir Hector clung to his rocking perch desperately — 
 but just as he imagined he had found his balance a sudden 
 stop sent him flying ponderously into the muddy road, 
 one suit case following. 
 
 “ It is the door of the sthables," said Andy Slattery 
 unsteadily ; “git up, yer honour." 
 
 Sir Hector climbed in silence . In silence he was driven 
 along the aimless wandering road which swept down 
 
210 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 into swamps, and then turned away from the level valleys 
 to clamp itself on to mountainous hill. It rained greyly 
 and persistently and a chill wind whistled. 
 
 Mile by mile and yard by yard the black mare died 
 out — until the whip singing off her sides did not even 
 make her switch her tail, and Sir Hector woke up to 
 abuse her as a useless jade. 
 
 " No, but the besht hack in all Ireland/' said Andy 
 in offended tones, " but what'd sthand Cregan Malone ? 
 Out twice last night with his friends goin' to him and 
 to-day didn't he keep her from nine till three, an' the 
 journey sixteen mile and all." 
 
 Sir Hector said coldly that if that was so this man 
 Malone must be a callous brute, and that he would note 
 the address and mention the matter to the S.P.C.A. 
 
 As the mare crawled languidly, Andy broke into 
 argument concerning Cregan Malone's kind-heartedness. 
 
 “ Then why did he so put upon a dumb beast ? " 
 
 " He could not help it." 
 
 Sir Hector thundered " Help it," as the mare stopped 
 and wished to know why not. 
 
 " He is dead presently, an' was buried to-day," said 
 Andy ruefully. "I'd say if we left in this mare, yer 
 honour " — he listened to Sir Hector spluttering — "at Dan 
 Crehen's house, his jennet would take us on. The 
 scald to that Tomsey that was so set on the buryin' 
 he med out his bike was broke, "he added, getting down 
 to open a gate. 
 
 "He — he — deliberately — did not take the wire," 
 gasped Hector Cavendish — " an official messenger ! " 
 
 "He is courtin' the corpse's dather," said Andy 
 placidly. " The sorra the taste was wrong with the 
 bike." 
 
 Andy knocked up a friendly farmer who reft some- 
 thing grey and small from a shed and seemed delighted 
 to help, Andy retreating indoors for refreshment. " She 
 is two sizes too small," said Andy, getting up. "An' 
 it will be the mercy of God if we do not capsize." 
 
 The jennet showed her mettle by starting with a squeal 
 
SIR HECTOR DEVEREUX'S BET 
 
 211 
 
 and a kick, and the car rocked down a steep abyss of 
 darkness at twenty miles an hour. 
 
 “Aisy, Bess,” said Andy, who had darned up his 
 patched sobriety. 
 
 “ For God's sake, driver,” yelled Sir Hector. 
 
 “ She will not kape it up,” said Andy. 
 
 But as Bess, soured by untimely rousing, squealed and 
 tore on, the powerful lights of a car accelerated to top 
 speed glided up the road and with “ Ye schamer ! ” 
 Andy pulled aside. 
 
 He was too late. The wing Sir Hector sat upon broke 
 with a wrenching snarl of breaking wood, amid a 
 shower of curses. The baronet slid into the motor 
 clutching at anything. 
 
 “ You and your friends drunk as usual, Andy,” said 
 a voice calmly. “ Out you go,” and a tall man poked 
 Sir Hector over the edge, letting him fall on to a heap of 
 muddy grass. 
 
 “ The gentleman is as sober as meself,” said Andy 
 with dignity. “ If anyone has a drop taken, me lord, it 
 would be the chauffoor.” 
 
 Sir Hector rose to confront Lord Annadhew, one of 
 the authorities whom he had come over to see. In a 
 trembling voice he made himself known. 
 
 “ Oh, by gad — Devereux,” said Annadhew easily. 
 “What bad luck. Not hurt, I hope. Fell among 
 thieves when you met Andy, didn't you ? The stuff he 
 carries is awful. Lunch with me, Friday. Hope you 
 can both sit one side — good-night.” 
 
 With the bitter knowledge that he was considered to 
 be drunk, Sir Hector saw the car drive on. He was 
 beginning to wonder if anyone could understand Ireland. 
 He was weary of futile rage. It was ten when the lop- 
 sided car reached Cahirlish ; a great rambling house with 
 a river running close by in the darkness. 
 
 Sir Hector, utterly weary, was greeted by an old 
 bewhiskered butler, and ushered into a low-ceiled room 
 which glowed with warmth and comfort. 
 
 He ate and explained sleepily — he stumbled to a room 
 
212 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 which smelt of turf smoke, and slept dreamlessly until 
 the old man roused him, sympathetically proffering 
 condolence as to the night's misadventure. 
 
 “ That Tomsey should be hunted," said James. “ If 
 ye'r own self was dead an 'a weddin' on, Tomsey 's bike 
 'ud be broke before he'd bring the wire to let ye know, 
 Sir Hector." 
 
 Irritated and weary, Sir Hector came to breakfast, 
 greeted his cousin by marriage and looked out amazed 
 at the beauty of Cahirlish. Miss Elisha Macnamara 
 showed no surprise at the visit until she heard the reason 
 — then her cackle was not melodious. 
 
 “ You want to see Crowe, the members, and Father 
 O'Loughlin and Annadhew. Oh, you've seen him. 
 Don't see them together, Hector, and don't imagine you'll 
 hear anything that will make you wiser. You've a 
 bet on it ? " Miss Macnamara glowed to warmth. “ I 
 hope it's not big," she said pleasantly, “ but I'm glad 
 you're a sport, Hector." At this point the telegram and 
 a loaf of bread came in together — and Elisha Macna- 
 mara listened to the account against Tomsey — who was 
 to be instantly reported. 
 
 " If you report Tomsey he'll only get ten witnesses to 
 prove he wasn't in the village," she said cheerfully. 
 “ And he's such a nice boy, Hector, and always has a 
 fox in Toomvara. You can't report a good covert keeper, 
 you know." 
 
 Sir Hector left his egg untouched for some time. 
 
 He spent busy days — he had long talks which were as 
 salutary as froth, for, when he had finished them, he 
 found the solid residue almost nil, and he took notes 
 feverishly. Tomsey, who came with many telegrams, 
 greeted him as a friend, hoping that his honour wasn't 
 the worse of the black ill luck of the bicycle being broke 
 the first day, and bewailing the distance so sweetly 
 that Sir Hector found himself, almost as a man who 
 dreams, laying a bright half-crown in a responsive, 
 freckled palm, and receiving a full account of the last 
 hunt from Toomvara in return. 
 
SIR HECTOR DEVEREUX'S BET 
 
 213 
 
 When questioned as to politics, Tomsey replied that 
 he had never seen an M.P. that could ride to nounds, so 
 he had no mind for them, and departed blithely. 
 
 Neither could all Hector's explanations remove a 
 slight and irritating smile from Annadhew's face. 
 
 “ Thought you were old Nat Lonigan when you 
 bumped in," he said. " You want the items of the fuss 
 at Ardagh ? I don't think the men themselves know 
 what it was about." 
 
 Sir Hector wanted to know, heavily, if anyone knew 
 anything. 
 
 “ Oh, they know a bit of sport," said the Peer, and 
 began to talk of his grey hunter. 
 
 The ten days were nearly over when a meeting was 
 proclaimed at Ardagh and Sir Hector drove over, full 
 sure that he would get to the very heart of a disturbance 
 and hear what the Irish had to say, and the dignified 
 response of the police officer. 
 
 He drove early into a bleak little town, which had a 
 market square in its midst, where he found the genial 
 young D.I., Hugh Clanchy, commanding a very small 
 force of men. 
 
 "They've a huge crowd in and I've 'phoned for rein- 
 forcements," said Clanchy. “ If they rush us, we're 
 done — they want to speak here and we won't have it. 
 I'd go home if I were you, sir." 
 
 “ But if you let them speak and someone of our side 
 debated " said Sir Hector. 
 
 " And what the dickens could you debate about — 
 specially as they wouldn't listen," said Clanchy, giving 
 an order to his men. 
 
 Big brakes be-flagged and be-drummed drew up, a 
 couple of motors whizzed in and an independent -minded 
 band struck up " God save Ireland " in all the keys it 
 knew. 
 
 The small cordon of police were drawn across the 
 square, and a huge crowd massed, making little swaying 
 rushes, showing their teeth as it were, ready, if one blow 
 came, to rush in and do murder. 
 
214 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 “ I'd get away if I were you,” said Larry over his 
 square shoulder. “ When the batons begin to crack, 
 they'll hurt us here — we're too few. Train bringing 
 some others broken down.” 
 
 The crowd increased its size and power. It passed 
 to jeering before it took to its ugly work. 
 
 A fat little man called for free passage to the square 
 and the thin dark line remained immovable. 
 
 An old woman, her grey hair loosened, jostled into a 
 front place and with a jeer to the “ polis ” put her hands 
 on her stout hips and coming opposite Larry broke into 
 derisive jigging. The low murmur of the crowds was the 
 note which goes before storm — mingled with “ Nancy,” 
 “ Well done, ould Nance.” 
 
 Nancy Rea was defying the officer. Ireland showing 
 her contempt for authority. 
 
 Larry Clanchy drew a long breath, then, without a 
 word, his face stonily graven, he hooked up his sword, 
 put his arms akimbo, and with the same gravity stood 
 out opposite Nancy, his feet stepping deftly ; the low 
 growl gave way to silence, broken by an “ Oh, my God,” 
 from Sir Hector. 
 
 Larry's feet cut the air like lightning. Nancy's 
 stout boots clattered madly ; she had been doing the 
 step dance of her country. 
 
 Across the silence, shrill and sweet, broke a tuneful 
 whistle of the wind that shakes the barley. It was taken 
 up. Someone laughed. Someone cried " Success.” 
 In as many keys as the band the old stirring jig tune 
 shrilled, while the fat man in the wagonette cursed 
 forcibly, unheeded. 
 
 “ He'll do ye, Nancy. She is blown. Success, Misther 
 Clanchy. Ye ken sthep it.” 
 
 “ La la la la aity,” lilted the jig notes. Old Nancy 
 gasped, but stuck to it bravely. Larry jigged and his 
 men stood keeping guard quite gravely. 
 
 Nancy Rea showed signs of stopping ; marching feet 
 sounded steadily coming from the station, and the curt 
 bark of an order rang out. 
 
SIR HECTOR DEVEREUX'S BET 
 
 215 
 
 I^arry Clanchy stepped back as gravely as he stepped 
 out ; save for the heave of his chest, he was once more a 
 decorous police officer. 
 
 Sir Hector clung to the village pump and yearned 
 for England. " They'd have rushed us in two minutes/’ 
 he heard Larry say to a superior. “ Good idea, what ? ” 
 
 The mail-train was due for Dublin in an hour. A 
 shaken man sent a wire to Cahirlish to have his things 
 sent on and caught it eagerly. 
 
 Three days later he rose to answer a question from 
 the Opposite benches. 
 
 " My right honourable friend,” said the Member for 
 Cara, “ may have something interesting to say on the 
 Irish Question after his . . .” He caught Sir Hector's 
 eye — and juggled the words cleverly. 
 
 Ten minutes later he opened an envelope containing 
 a five-pound note and smiled softly. 
 

 ✓ 
 
GETTING EVEN 
 

GETTING EVEN 
 
 T HEY'LL never dare to come near us/' said 
 Francis Costello to his life-long enemy, 
 Martin Keough. 
 
 Martin was a ferret-faced, red-headed 
 little fellow, fisherman by trade, with a taste for re- 
 bellion as fiery as his hair. When he was not fishing 
 he poached, so dexterously that he was never caught. 
 
 The Costellos knew it was their rabbits and ferrets 
 which brought in the money to deck Ellie and Katie 
 Keough with flowery hats and new frocks, and supplied 
 Martin with whisky and cigarettes, but no one could 
 catch him. 
 
 He also speared salmon and netted trout, and was 
 even reputed to have sold fox cubs. Behind a veil of 
 apparent civility, Martin Keough and the heir to Castle 
 Costello had been enemies all their lives. Now, with 
 extreme bitterness, they discussed politics, Martin 
 sneering softly. 
 
 " If they want arrums, they'll get arrums," said 
 Martin. 
 
 When Francis Costello snapped out that the man who 
 took his would live to repent it, Martin's smile was a 
 blend of delicacy and derision. 
 
 js Castle Costello harbour would have been a quiet place 
 if Martin had not, with his cunning tongue, stirred its 
 inhabitants to hatred of the English, and held up the 
 Germans as the good nation of the earth. 
 
 Youths and old men who listened believed that should 
 Germany rule all, the debt owed for land to the British 
 Government would be cancelled ; that sugar rationing 
 would be abolished, and bacon fall in price. 
 
 On a misty autumn evening, with the sea sobbing 
 
220 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 softly as it crept up, Frank Costello argued, and finally 
 lost his temper as he realised that Martin's replies were 
 slippery and yet pungent. 
 
 The Sinn Feiners had raided many of the big places 
 and came away with only old muskets or useless weapons, 
 sensible people having hidden their guns. Young Frank 
 kept his openly in his arms cabinet, with a loaded re- 
 volver in a box on his dressing-table. 
 
 He strolled home through the woods, growling to him- 
 self, coming through the whispering dusk to the big 
 house set on a bluff above the sheltered harbour. His 
 mother, old and fragile, was on the steps. She had a 
 heart so weak that any shock might stop its beating 
 for ever. With her was his sister Rose, recovering from 
 a breakdown from hard work in France, and his younger 
 sister Lily. 
 
 Mrs. Costello talked with faint contempt of the raids. 
 She trusted in Frank. 
 
 He had been wounded and was home for some months, 
 limping still. 
 
 “ I believe that ruffian, Martin, will try and get the 
 guns just to annoy me," he said. 
 
 Next morning Francis Delapore Costello literally shook 
 from helpless rage. He was an officer in His Majesty's 
 senior service, a brave man, and hot-tempered ; yet he 
 stood helpless, in blue silk pyjamas, a bath-sponge his 
 only weapon, while fifteen masked and armed raiders 
 calmly ransacked his mother's house. He could have 
 rushed on them and smote them with his fists, but a 
 helpless old woman and two young ones were behind 
 him, and bloodshed would only reduce them to despair. 
 
 His mother's face was pale, and he could see the agony 
 in her eyes, though she stood proudly as if fearless. 
 
 The raiders had chosen their time well. Frank had 
 come out of his bath to see the crowd of men, most of 
 them with cloths tied over their faces, one, the leader, 
 with a deep black mask. This gentleman, in a soothing 
 squeak, bade Mr. Costello “ be aisy." 
 
 A small man, his head in a cloth as a plum pudding 
 
GETTING EVEN 
 
 221 
 
 ready for boiling, made easy way down the passage. 
 
 “ If you dare to take my guns/' foamed Frank, 
 “111 " 
 
 Here he raised the bath-sponge and someone chuckled 
 softly. 
 
 Frank's head went up. 
 
 “ Very well, Martin Keough," he said crisply. 
 
 The small man hesitated for just a second, then 
 walked on. 
 
 “ Look hard and see if his hair is red," said Frank 
 to Lily, speaking in vile French. 
 
 At this Lily Costello followed the searchers, staring 
 hard at them, and the man in the black mask, raising a 
 cheap automatic, told Frank to keep still. To hurl bath- 
 sponge and soap would be undignified. Frank's rage 
 was absolutely painful as he saw the return of the 
 searchers with two shot-guns and his revolver. 
 
 One of the others from behind his cloth covering said, 
 “ Nate entirely." 
 
 “The wren-boys have got the guns," said Lily. 
 “ Now, mother, we can come away ; it's all over." 
 
 She pulled her mother back to her bedroom, and 
 Frank, dancing in his blue silk suit, let his rage loose, 
 with slow words which came from him with difficulty ; 
 he swore to be even with the men who had trapped him 
 and caught him unawares. 
 
 The deft, quick movements of the head searcher were 
 familiar to him. It was all he could do not to tear the 
 man's mask off and risk the row to follow. 
 
 “ And thank ye kindly," said a squeak in Frank's ear, 
 emanating from behind the thick cloth tied over this 
 little man's face. 
 
 “ Someone signalled to you that I was in my bath," 
 he said. “ Someone " 
 
 They went downstairs, and he rushed for another 
 pistol hidden away, to find the key gone from its place 
 on his table. Leaning out of his window, he noticed that 
 a towel hung from one of the maid's rooms. 
 
 Martin Keough 's cousin was an under-housemaid. 
 
222 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 Frank drew a long, deep breath. The raiders had slippe d 
 into the trees and he could not see them. 
 
 He did not even go for the police, because his brain 
 was filled with an idea to pay Martin out. Late in the 
 afternoon he rode his motor bike to Drinmere, a harbour 
 across the hill, where he went to see Anthony Persse, 
 home on ten days' leave, and told him that he was quite 
 sure Keough had been the leader of the raid. 
 
 " With his chat of German friends," stormed Frank. 
 " If a U-boat would come and take him and his guns," 
 he growled. " I'll get even with him." 
 
 Then Francis Costello jumped up suddenly, waving 
 his hands. 
 
 " Crawling wasp," said Anthony sympathetically. 
 
 Frank returned, "Crawling ass," with more haste 
 than politeness. 
 
 "How much German can you talk?" he shouted 
 eagerly. " Much ? " 
 
 Anthony replied modestly that he had picked up a good 
 bit from the little nurse who had looked after him before 
 he was exchanged. 
 
 "Little fair-haired girl," he said. " But it's not 
 exactly — er — what we said to each other. Not exactly 
 conversational, Frank." 
 
 "I'm up to Schwein Hunde and Dumme Yunge my- 
 self," said Frank. " And odd bits. Prosit. Verboten. 
 Silentium. Verstanden. Now look here." 
 
 Then he unfolded his scheme. His launch, the Willy 
 Wagtail, was not a submarine, but, covered with tar- 
 paulins on a dark night, with sticks rigged as guns, she 
 might look like one. 
 
 Martin and his cousin, Jamesey, would be out fishing 
 every night. They fished off the Hook, a nosing rut 
 of rocks, with a hundred little creeks and inlets near it. 
 If the Willy Wagtail could be slipped across to lie in one 
 and wait there, and come out disguised. 
 
 " If it could ... I might get even," said Frank, 
 staring at the sullen grey sea, which heaved in big oily 
 swells. 
 
GETTING EVEN 
 
 223 
 
 An hour later he started for home. The men in Castle 
 Costello village looked duly elated as he got down at the 
 post-office. He sensed rather than saw or heard looks 
 and whispers. Leaving the bike, he walked to the pier, 
 to find Martin there, diligently mending a net. The 
 tide was low, the tarry, fishy smell of all piers hung 
 heavily in the still air. 
 
 Far off, grey smudges of smoke marked the track of 
 coasting steamers ; fiercer trails, of the King's Navy 
 convoying some liner or transport. 
 
 " There is word down from the maids that the Republic 
 med a raid on ye, " said Martin, mending diligently. 
 
 His hands were black with tar, and one forefinger was 
 tied up. Frank looked hard. 
 
 “ Some fools took some old guns," said Frank care- 
 lessly. 
 
 "An' is it true ye were naked in ye'r bath," said 
 Martin sympathetically, “ and couldn't show a fight at 
 all ? " 
 
 “ It is true that I was afraid of them," said Frank. 
 “ Quite true, Martin. When the sound of one shot 
 might have killed my mother," he added quietly. 
 
 “ Cute ones," observed Martin, holding up his handi- 
 work. 
 
 “ If you're out to-night, bring me some fish," said 
 Frank. “ We want some. Mackerel if they're in, or 
 lobsters." 
 
 “ We might be drawin' the pots late." Martin's tone 
 was puzzled. He had expected suspicion. 
 
 About dusk that night the Willy Wagtail motor- 
 launch sped through the dimness until she was stopped 
 below a reef of high rocks, where she floated in calm water, 
 her side touching thick seaweed, and two men worked 
 hard at her, until, after two hours, her original outlines 
 were swathed in black tarpaulin ; a packing-case covered 
 over made semblance of a conning tower, and some 
 old drain pipes, in the dark, were quite like guns. 
 
 Lieut. Frank Costello, in a flowing beard and oilskins, 
 practised a guttural voice successfully, and young 
 
224 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 Anthony Persse had gummed on a fierce moustache, 
 culled from the Iceland pony's mane, a hirsute append- 
 age so fiercely curled up that he was quite Kaiser-like. 
 
 After a time the flap and squeak of sail and sheet and 
 the gentle lap of water told of an approaching boat. 
 
 Keough would anchor to take up his lobster-pots 
 before he sailed out to fish. 
 
 The sound of two sing-song voices came across the 
 misty night, and the Willy Wagtail's engine throbbed 
 to fife. 
 
 A long, dark shape, she crept from the shadows to 
 slip up beside the smack. 
 
 “ God in hevin above us," said Martin, looking at the 
 camouflaged boat. 
 
 “ Dumme Yunge," hailed Anthony fiercely. “ Halt ! " 
 
 “ Germins," gasped Jamesey “ We are frindly, yer 
 honours the Kaisers, frindly." 
 
 “ Stramme, schweinhund, verboten, "returned Anthony. 
 “ We vont " 
 
 “ Oh, God save us, " said Martin, sitting down. “ Save 
 and guard us, what do you want ? Is it petrol, that is 
 not just here ? " 
 
 In broken, guttural English, Frank explained they 
 wanted arms. Germany was running short. Hundreds 
 of U-boats round the coast were to get two or three guns 
 from every fishing-boat or sink the boat. 
 
 Here a drain pipe, poised on an improvised pivot, 
 swung threateningly. 
 
 “ Hummel! Bimmel ! A l'instant." 
 
 “ Keep off French, you blighter," murmured Anthony 
 softly. 
 
 “ Unter den Linden. Down to pottom of Zuider 
 Zay, " growled Frank. “ Give us the arms, vishermans." 
 Here he swung a drain pipe dexterously. 
 
 In anguished tones of fear, Martin declaimed, 
 Why would he bring guns on his fishin' boat ? He 
 had ne'er a gun, with the police snappin' every waypon. 
 Not a one. 
 
 “ I will gif you vun half hour to find two gun and von 
 
GETTING EVEN 
 
 225 
 
 pistole/ 1 said Frank. “ You go find them. I keep 
 your cus — " — he gulped, for the word cousin had almost 
 escaped him — “ your cusset vrend as hostage. You 
 raise alarm — not come — down boat, cousin — all. Seenk. 
 We are Germans. An' you take guns to help us shoot 
 the English ." 
 
 “An' four gallons of John Jamieson below," came 
 through the gloom from Jamesey. 
 
 There were whisperings in the dark, the stir of 
 frightened men. 
 
 “But are ye not sindin 9 guns to Ireland," gasped 
 Martin, “ so why should ye be wantin' ? " 
 
 “ All other places haf guns ready for us to-night. 
 Gome. Two goot gun, von pistole. Dirty minutes I gif 
 you — no more." 
 
 He listened to a frenzied outburst as to the wickedness 
 of sinking an Irish fishing-boat, and gave curt response 
 that Germany made war . What she required she took. 
 
 “ Six off de dirty minutes ; I gif no more. Hoch 
 heimer Bern castler a doctor. Der Tag. At it, Tony," 
 Frank’s German was running low. 
 
 “ Go fetch. Ich Lieber Dich," thundered Anthony. 
 “ Schnell — that is queek. Hertzblud. Kleinchin. 
 Wunderbar Schon. Ich Lieber Dich. Du bist vie eine 
 Blume. Madel Sein Madel Mein." 
 
 Before this torrent Martin wilted. With a stifled wail, 
 he pulled up the little dinghy, falling rather than getting 
 into it, baffling Jamesey 's efforts to follow him. 
 
 “ Von dirty minutes an' we sink your scheep," said 
 Frank, his bearded, oilskinned bulk showing in the 
 gloom. “ If you tell poleece, we seenk your ship and go 
 under sea ourselves. You no goot." 
 
 A whisper rose from the sea. 
 
 “Hand me out the jars of whisky, Jamesey," and 
 the muttered response : “ Faix I will not, or ye'd never 
 come back here, me boy. An' it's the dirty thrick to 
 lave me here," shrieked Jamesey aloud. 
 
 They could hear the swish of Martin's oars and see 
 the phosphorus gleam on the oily sea. Then the quiet 
 
 H 
 
226 IRISH STEW 
 
 was broken by Jamesey, whose terror was too deep for 
 silence. 
 
 In obsequious tones he washed to know where their 
 honours came from. An' if it was not the damp soort 
 of a life down under the wather. He professed fervent 
 friendship to the dacent Germins, and presently, en- 
 couraged by responses of Dumkoph or Schun Liebchein, 
 he shyly proffered a drop to keep the cowld out. 
 
 "Good egg/' murmured young Persse. "Bring up 
 all vot is dere, veeskey, vine," commanded Anthony. 
 " All — Blumchien." 
 
 Jamesey said that maybe Martin would not be best 
 plazed, but he went below, and, under stress, went again 
 until four gallon jars of w’hisky w T ere ranged on the 
 deck. 
 
 The moon stayed behind dark clouds. The two 
 officers sat in dignified silence, wondering what would 
 happen if another boat passed, or if Martin would ever 
 return. 
 
 Then the plash of oars sounded ; the boat bumped 
 the smack's side, and Martin climbed on board. 
 
 He had hurried until he dripped, and he wavered on 
 the borderland which marks the space between futile 
 anger and whining for mercy and payment. 
 
 His own guns shwep from him, but surely his honour 
 the Capt'in would now give him the vally of them same. 
 
 " Hocheimer," rasped Frank. "Did you not collect 
 them for Uns ? Dumme Javowle Stramme." 
 
 " I did not," said Martin clearly. " I was the leader, 
 yer honour." 
 
 " Strafe," said Anthony, haughtily, putting the guns 
 on board the Willy Wagtail. 
 
 A coppery gleam behind the clouds was making him 
 anxious to be gone. 
 
 " And the whisky. We will hoch der Kaiser." 
 
 Anthony swept the four jars on to the shrouded hull. 
 
 Martin had endured much. He now gave way. In 
 tones of passion mixed with fear he cursed Jamesey for 
 a fool. 
 
GETTING EVEN 
 
 227 
 
 As the Willy Wagtail swung clear, he denounced the 
 Germins as robbin' vilyins. 
 
 “ The Devil damn the Kaiser that couldn't brew whisky 
 or guns for himself," shrieked Martin, as he saw the last 
 glimmer of his jars. 
 
 “ Ich Lieber Dich. Blumchien. Geben mie eine 
 kiisse," stormed Anthony. 
 
 “ Hocheimer," roared Frank, and the Wagtail, darkly 
 draped, scuttered out to sea, her engine throbbing. 
 
 At this last fusilade of German they could hear 
 Jamesey in trembling tones begging Martin, for the 
 love of God, to keep his tongue quiet ; and Martin, in 
 response, cursing every Kaiser that was bred on 
 earth. 
 
 The Willy Wagtail stole out to sea and back to a 
 sheltered creek, where, in silver moonlight, she was 
 stripped of her dark drapery, her drain-pipe guns put 
 into the sea, and then she popped and scuttered back to 
 Castle Townshend, but not until the dawn was breaking 
 pale across the sea. 
 
 The District Inspector at Drinmere was so impressed 
 by the gravity of the matter, as reported by Martin, 
 that he sent for his superior. 
 
 The two listened to Martin's impassioned outburst 
 with judicial gravity. 
 
 The guns which he had given up Martin camouflaged 
 as two useless old muskets which were not even good 
 enough to give in to the police, but the note in his 
 voice as he described their looting, made the County 
 Inspector smile thoughtfully. 
 
 “ Why didn't I make for help when I rowed in, sir ? 
 An' they promisin' to sink me little smack, an' the lan- 
 gidge they threw at me head. * Ik leber Dick ' ; that. 
 I'd say, was a terrible threat." 
 
 The County Inspector, who was a German scholar, 
 sat straighter, a gleam coming into his eyes. 
 
 “ Can you remember any more ? " he said softly. 
 
 “ Hock Himer the second one was at, an' he very 
 vexed," said Jamesey. "Dummy was a great word. 
 
228 IRISH STEW 
 
 an' Koose, but that Leber Dick was what I'd recall 
 most.” 
 
 The County Inspector promised, with extreme gravity, 
 that he would see these two wronged men righted. 
 England would look to it. 
 
 Then he bicycled up to Castle Costello, where he met 
 Frank, out shooting rabbits, and he looked thoughtfully 
 at the gun, before he sat on a stone and laughed most 
 immoderately. 
 
 Frank Costello shot on happily with his favourite 
 gun, which he put safely away when he came home ; and 
 Martin Keough is wont now, when talking politics, to 
 remark bitterly that whatever the country was out for, 
 to give him anythin' but them robbin', dhrunken 
 Germins, with whisky at sixteen shillings a bottle, an' 
 his little sthore all he had on earth. 
 
LORD HILLAYTON’S 
 SETTLEMENT 
 
✓ 
 
 
LORD HILLAYTON’S SETTLEMENT 
 
 M ARGOT ERSTINE had acquired a reputation 
 for being clever. She was a slightly-made, 
 colourless maiden of twenty-seven, with a 
 bright manner and a certain way of pursing 
 her lips when anyone made a social mistake, which made 
 her friends realise that Margot knew she would nevre 
 " have done that." A flutter of sandy eyelashes and a 
 little sneer ; and by degrees the reputation was built- 
 up. 
 
 Margot always thought things out ; she was careful 
 to be sweet and very pleasant to desirable hostesses. 
 
 " Such a nice girl in a house," they said, " and quite 
 safe." 
 
 This implied that the eldest sons were not liable to be 
 attracted by a well-born but almost penniless girl. 
 
 Margot's mother had a bright little flat, and Margot 
 was well dressed, but it had leaked out that most of the 
 Erstines' income came from an annuity to Mrs. Erstine. 
 
 And now at last Margot was engaged. She had proved 
 her cleverness. Her fiance was small and podgy with a 
 surprised expression in his eyes, which sometimes deep- 
 ened now when he looked at Margot, but he was heir 
 presumptive to Lord Hillayton, who was sixty and a 
 confirmed bachelor. 
 
 Margot had planned little expeditions and meetings ; 
 she had planned the evening in the flat when mother was. 
 called out, and the proposal had been shaken from Fred 
 Marayon. 
 
232 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 She planned the honeymoon and the future, and, of 
 course, no nicely brought up girl wants anyone to die 
 . . . but she decided on silver tissue for her presentation 
 dress when she was Lady Hillayton, and she had already 
 thought of prospective tenants for the Scotch fishing ; 
 they could pay visits in August. 
 
 Margot met her future uncle and gushed sweetly to 
 him of her devotion to Freddie, her determination to be 
 happy on their teeny weeny little income in a little flat 
 somewhere near dear Freddie's clubs and things, and 
 Harrod's for cheap shopping. “ Go to live in the 
 country! " Margot repressed a squeak of horror. “ So 
 dreadfully bad for a man unless he had lots of horses 
 and so on — so depressing with all the people who were 
 there shut away at five o'clock, and an extra maid to do 
 lamps and grates." 
 
 “ A flat would suit you best," said his Lordship grimly. 
 
 He was really fairly generous to Freddie. He allowed 
 him five hundred a year, and Freddie had seven of his 
 own. This was completely out of kindness, but as 
 Margot said for a man with an income of thirty thousand 
 it was mean. 
 
 “ Darling Freddie, you may say he spends his income," 
 said Margot sweetly ; she was always just a little 
 superior in her manner. “ But — at sixty one ought not 
 to want to spend it. Hunters, motors — I call it selfish 
 when he knows that his heir must travel in a 
 'bus." 
 
 The preparations for the wedding went on smoothly. 
 Margot spent blissful hours trying on frocks ; rich rela- 
 tions, happily relieved of Margot's long visits and Mar- 
 got's clever little letters asking so diffidently for help, 
 sent cheques for frocks and frills. Margot was buying 
 cautiously and cleverly. Good furs, laces, a few beautiful 
 frocks. 
 
 “ If you could lend me that lace blouse, dear Clare, 
 for my little woman to copy. I could never afford to 
 go to Jap for one like it." 
 
 Ten to one that dear Clare said," Take the thing," 
 
LORD HILLAYTON'S SETTLEMENT 233 
 
 carelessly, “ and have copies made. I've worn it 
 once ” 
 
 Clever Margot got old lace from her Aunt Jennie, 
 more from a distant cousin. She priced and contrived 
 and mapped out, but there was a crumpled rose leaf. 
 
 She wanted the dearest of little houses close to Park 
 Lane, a bijou maisonette sandwiched between stately 
 neighbours. It was replete with electric lights and fires, 
 with varieties of baths and two little conservatories. 
 Margot knew how she would keep these filled by her 
 uncle's gardeners. But the price was eighteen thousand 
 pounds. 
 
 With an income of twelve hundred the house seemed 
 a dream to everyone except Margot, and she relied 
 on her cleverness. 
 
 “ If your uncle would only give it to us for a wedding- 
 present, Freddie," she said, “we should be rent free 
 for ever. Think of it." 
 
 Freddie was not at all sure that he liked the tiny 
 ornate rooms on which you were brought up by the 
 window immediately you shut the door ; he said electric 
 fires were dangerous, y'know. S'pose the current went 
 astray, weren't there live wires and things like the 
 Underground ? 
 
 But Margot's heart was set on it and Freddie was clay 
 in the hands of the potter. 
 
 Margot's active brain worked, and suddenly as Margot 
 read a paper, Margot shrieked — she saw her way. 
 
 Freddie, who was feeling neglected, said, “ Wasp or 
 bee? " and as an afterthought, “ Blue-bag either case ; ” 
 but Margot merely replied, “ Silly," as she seized his 
 arm. 
 
 “ Know any actresses, Freddie ? Any actresses ? " 
 she jerked out wildly. 
 
 Freddie replied “Course," with an injured air. At 
 twenty-six not to know actresses was an allegation no 
 man of the world could stand. 
 
 “ Friends with any, Fred ? " 
 
 Freddie grew cautious. He tried to make looks do 
 
 H* 
 
234 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 duty for words, he changed the surprised look for that 
 of the sly dog, and he smiled cryptically. 
 
 Margot said all men were alike, and he must know 
 heaps. " They must have raced for you, dear,” she said 
 eagerly. 
 
 Freddie stiffened his short little neck. 
 
 “ Knowing whose nephew you were. And of course 
 lor yourself.” Margot saw her mistake immediately. 
 " But look here, Freddie, darling. Oh, such an idea.” 
 
 Margot held out the Daily Splendour , showing the 
 headlines of a breach of promise case. Peer's son and 
 gaiety girl, claim for fifty thousand. 
 
 " If you had a real pal, Freddie . . You could give her 
 a five hundred, in diamonds, of course. Oh, can't you 
 understand? Then listen.” 
 
 Then clever Margot sat on Freddie's somewhat wobbly 
 knee and unfolded her scheme, and Freddie gasped as 
 he said he didn't like it, but by degrees he began to see. 
 Now Freddie did know an actress, quite well. She was 
 a light in one of the musical comedies, and she was the 
 daughter of a man near Hillayton Hall. Freddie had 
 got her an introduction, he had helped her to settle 
 down, and had asked her out to supper. 
 
 Estelle Ersmond — her name was Paxton — was grateful ; 
 she was a merry girl, tall and handsome, with a keen 
 sense of humour. Margot danced with sheer delight. 
 
 But Miss Erstine disturbed her Freddie's diplomacy. 
 She called on Miss Ersmond next day herself, and plunged 
 into it with a cleverness which made the actress arch her 
 eyebrows. Margot's gushing condescension was in her 
 own opinion exact, right, also her sweet manner and 
 clever explanations. After a little Miss Ersmond looked 
 at Freddie, who was apparently cutting his teeth on 
 his umbrella handle, and she laughed, a merry, ringing 
 laugh. 
 
 " It's horribly mean,” she said frankly. 
 
 Margot now arched her eyebrows because this was 
 familiar, but she ran on as to Freddie's longing for the 
 house, and their poverty and a man with millions a year, 
 
LORD HILLAYTON'S SETTLEMENT 235 
 
 so mean and hard to his heir. “ Isn't he, Freddie ? 0 
 Freddie endeavoured not to think of a three-figure 
 cheque sent for his honeymoon which was in his pocket- 
 book. 
 
 The interview was eventually successful. Clever 
 Margot went away leaving Freddie writing laboriously 
 at the actress's table, and Miss Ersmond dictating merrily > 
 though she still said that it was mean. 
 
 On the afternoon of the next day Miss Ersmond took 
 a taxi and drove to Grosvenor Square. She sent in her 
 card with “ urgent ' ' marked on it . She was shown into a 
 cool room furnished with mellow Sheraton and Chippen- 
 dale, and with sporting pictures adorning the walls. A 
 tea-table was placed close to the open window. 
 
 Miss Ersmond began to look at the pictures of the 
 horses. 
 
 “ Favourites of mine which I bring to town. I detest 
 a conventional drawing-room in a bachelor's house." 
 
 Estelle turned to see a man of nearly sixty who did 
 not look fifty, his reddish hair only tinged with grey, his 
 skin clear and firm. He had humorous grey eyes and a 
 pleasant voice. 
 
 “ I " said Miss Ersmond startled. “ Yes, I like 
 
 the bay." 
 
 “ My best horse," said Lord Hillayton. “ Irish, with 
 old Victor blood in her. Ah, yes, Adams, tea for two* 
 Now, Miss — yes — Ersmond, you wish to see me." 
 
 Estelle, very pink, begged him not to think of tea.. 
 She produced with decision two letters and handed them 
 to her host, who read them without glasses. He turned 
 to the signature and sighed. 
 
 “ I — never thought he had it in him," said Lord 
 Hillayton almost proudly. "These are a man's letters. 
 Freddie writing these ! Dear me — you might have 
 made a man of him too," he said regretfully. 
 
 Miss Ersmond gasped and sat down. 
 
 "A cup of tea," said Hillayton kindly. "Thanks,. 
 Adams, that will do. 1 presume," he went on, " yow 
 are showing these commercially." His voice hardened.. 
 
236 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 Estelle set her teeth as she nodded. 
 
 “ Of the Gaiety/' she said almost gruffly, “in the 
 Diamond Girl. You may have seen me." 
 
 “ I — no — I go to Opera when I can get away 
 from the House. Of the Gaiety ? Yes. Freddie — I am 
 astounded." 
 
 “ I want," said Estelle, trying not to falter, “ twenty 
 thousand for those letters. I shall get fifty in the 
 Courts." 
 
 “ Not from Freddie," said his uncle softly. “ H'm ! 
 he's engaged to a sandy-haired society girl. H'm ! 
 Most of the newspapers would probably pay you to bring 
 it on. He has treated you rottenly, Miss Ersmond — 
 judging by these." 
 
 A flicker of laughter came unbidden round Estelle's 
 lips. She repressed it and looked at the horses, but she 
 knew it had been noted. 
 
 “You rode that bay," she said suddenly, “the 
 long hunt from Constons Spinneys, four years ago. 
 I short -cutted on my cob and saw you come in first to 
 Winnermere." 
 
 “ You like hunting ! " said Hillayton, astonished. 
 
 “ I have had one hunt on a really good horse," she 
 answered. “ A grey — lent to me. I come from near 
 Hillayton — that brown has bad hocks, hasn't he ? I've 
 seen him, too." 
 
 The motor had waited for half an hour before they 
 finished discussing the horses. Then Estelle looked at 
 her watch. She had to dine at half-past six. 
 
 There was something in her eyes which she tried to 
 hide when she faced Lord Hillayton. 
 
 “ I — came to blackmail you and you've treated me as 
 an ordinary visitor," she faltered. 
 
 “ No," said Hillayton thoughtfully. “ Never as that." 
 
 “ And — I — oh, bother Freddie ! " she burst out with 
 a crinkled forehead. 
 
 “ You would have made a man of him," said Freddie's 
 uncle, “ sent him out to get his podgy fat off. Well, well ! 
 I'll drive you back, Miss Ersmond, and there are some 
 
LORD HILLAYTON'S SETTLEMENT 237 
 
 carnations here fresh from the country, if you'd honour 
 me by taking them." 
 
 The chauffeur remarked to the wheel that he was 
 blest, as Miss Ersmond got into the car, and they hummed 
 past Hyde Park towards Kensington. 
 
 Lord Hillayton saw the Diamond Girl next night, and 
 frowned thoughtfully. He was not fond of paint and 
 feathers and display of limbs, but he applauded loudly 
 when Estelle sang “ Little Country Birdees " with a trill of 
 feeling in her pretty voice. 
 
 “ What a pity," said Freddie's uncle. 
 
 Ten days later clever Margot saw to the purchase of 
 the little house ; she also chose some showy but badly 
 coloured diamonds at a shop near Charing Cross, and sent 
 them to Miss Estelle Ersmond. She even asked Miss 
 Ersmond to tea, to see the presents. 
 
 They poured in, glitter of their silver and softness 
 of mother-of-pearl, and red radiance of mock antique 
 furniture, but Margot pursed her lips when nothing came 
 from Freddie's uncle. 
 
 He wrote to say that he was called away, and could 
 not be at the wedding in September. 
 
 Margot's brow was puckered on her wedding-day 
 because no present had arrived. She told her friends 
 that she was to choose it with her dear uncle when he 
 came back to Town, he was away now on his yacht. 
 She hinted at a tiara, but she was nevertheless uneasy, 
 and sent such a sweet letter telling of all her best gifts, 
 and how she hoped to show them to her dear uncle in their 
 tiny house which they had got for positively nothing. 
 They would love some little pots of flowers for it from 
 Hillayton, and so on. 
 
 Clever Margot and dull Freddie honeymooned in 
 Paris, whei? it was rather chilly, and Margot did not 
 understand French quite as well as she might have, so 
 felt irritated when Freddie laughed immoderately at the 
 theatres. Then they returned to London and the new 
 toy house. 
 
 It was only partly furnished, the air of unrest which 
 
238 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 hangs over all new houses was upon it, the new maids 
 were in difficulties with the electric contrivances, and 
 Margot Weis a little worn by dinner-time. 
 
 Then she began to open a bundle of letters. 
 
 " One from my uncle/' said Freddie, " and a cheque 
 at last." 
 
 "Which I shall want so much," said Margot. 
 " Freddie, don't say, ' by gum ! ' What is in, Freddie ? 
 Why do you look like an owl ? " 
 
 "It's for £20 — no, for £2,000." 
 
 " I say, Freddie." 
 
 She snatched the letter. 
 
 " Dear Fred, 
 
 " I had not forgotten a wedding-present, as 
 Margot seemed to hint ; you see, I had really given you 
 rather a handsome one, which I said nothing about. I 
 enclose the letters written by you which I purchased. 
 Perhaps you do not know that I was myself married in 
 July to Estelle Ersmond ; we come back to Hillayton 
 in a week. Margot is so clever she will understand that 
 I have now ties of my own, and with already expectations 
 of an heir or heiress, I do not see my way to a permanent 
 allowance. But I send £2,000, to make the sum given 
 to you up to £20,000, as your final wedding-present. It 
 wasn't quite a nice trick to play, was it ? — yet it has made 
 me a wonderfully happy man, and I must always thank 
 clever Margot for it. 
 
 " I remain, 
 
 Your affectionate uncle, H." 
 
 " P.S. — Aunt sends her love." 
 
 Margot sat very still for a little. 
 
 " We — shall have to sell this house," she said hysteric- 
 ally. " All your fault, Freddie, not showing your uncle 
 those letters yourself. All your fault." 
 
 " Gwacious ! " said Freddie. " Gwacious ! " 
 
LORD HILLAYTON’S SETTLEMENT 239 
 
 “All my cleverness wasted!” stormed Margot. 
 ‘ My thought . . . you stupid.” 
 
 “ Don’t believe we’ll get ten thousand for this band- 
 box either,” said Freddie cheerlessly. “ I’ll put the 
 wedding-present away, Margot, carefully.” 
 
 Margot had nothing left to say. 
 
A GAMBLE FOR WARMTH 
 
' • 
 
 V 
 
A GAMBLE FOR WARMTH 
 
 B LEAK, bitter cold, riding on a north-east wind ; 
 lash of hail, and then a drive of half-melted 
 sleet ; and all the time a wind, which could not 
 be kept out, a wind which made the cold physi- 
 cal pain in its intensity. 
 
 Men and women in warm coats and furs hurried from 
 it into motors or shops, shivering as they hurried. The 
 puddles on the pavements were icy ; when the hail 
 ceased they crinkled in the grip of frost. 
 
 “ Bruh ! If one could be warm — warm for ten minutes/' 
 Mark Deering, shabby loafer, shuddered the words 
 out. He was wet through ; the icy water squelched in 
 his sodden boots ; his thin coat was buttoned tightly 
 to hide the lack of a waistcoat. 
 
 " To be warm once,” he muttered. “ Lord ! when a 
 man goes down, he goes down.” 
 
 He had travelled from London to answer an adver- 
 tisement, to try for a post on a country paper — vainly. 
 The rolling stone had gathered an evil lichen in its 
 passage down-hill. One step had set it going on its 
 course. 
 
 So cold that cold did not matter. Deering stood 
 dreaming on the pavement. He dreamt of warmth ; of 
 days when he had sat in a comfortable office, with fires 
 to keep circulation going; well clothed, clean. His 
 heart ached for a deep hot bath. His was a sordid, 
 ordinary story. A clerk, in a good firm, employed by 
 Frances Brothers, a hard-working young fellow, so well 
 connected, so well recommended, that he knew he was 
 put there with a junior partnership in view. And then 
 jealousy, gnawing at the fabric of his life ; a girl's careless 
 
244 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 fancy won away from one of his employers, who was 
 a widower with one son ; coldness which he laughed at 
 inwardly ; a slip and its consequences. Going racing with- 
 out a day's leave, and given money to pay away in the 
 morning — young Deering had forgotten to cash a cheque. 
 He borrowed, paid in ten pounds short, said thoughtlessly 
 that it was an oversight, that he would bring it next day. 
 Fate sent Francis Elliot across the man who ought to 
 have been paid in full. Fate left Mark Deering for the 
 night at Newmarket with a broken arm. He came back 
 a marked man, an embezzler, untrustworthy, a being 
 to be dismissed in disgrace, even expected to give grati- 
 tude for mercy. Frances did not spare the boy who had 
 crossed him. 
 
 Mentally bruised and sore, Mark had turned to his love, 
 to meet fresh scorn there. Miss Greatorex was not at 
 home to Mr. Deering ; wrote him a cruel, callous note 
 of dismiss 1 ; and eventvrlly married Elliot. 
 
 With a stone about one's neck it is easy to sink. Mark 
 Deering knew it now. The man who had wiped the dust 
 of injustice from his feet was now a sodden wastrel, a poor 
 creature who had tried to work and found his brand of 
 shame an ever visible thing. No office would take him ; 
 he tried journalism ; the big newspaper offices found 
 him out. He had attempted everything — and failed. 
 
 Now he would journey back to London, soaked, 
 chilled, empty — he had grown too used to hunger to feel 
 it greatly — in a third-class which the stuffiness mademore 
 intense. He must keep his last shilling for a bed and 
 the “ cawfee and slice " called breakfast ; and look 
 next day for some job by which he might earn another. 
 If there was none — Mark shrugged his thin shoulders 
 drearily ; there was always the right to die and so forget 
 the cold. 
 
 Yet life was strong in his starved body ; he feared the 
 thing he did not know of. 
 
 A big motor glided to the footpath, its hood up, the 
 back seat packed with luggage. A tall man getting out 
 turned to the chauffeur. 
 
A GAMBLE FOR WARMTH 
 
 245 
 
 “ Take her to a garage, Gustave, and put the petrol 
 in, and see to that loose nut. Ill go in and get a cup of 
 coffee here ; then we'll go on to Stannerly. You've 
 looked out the way, I hope." 
 
 Pulling off a big fur coat, the man strolled into the 
 restaurant. 
 
 Gustave the chauffeur enquired in indifferent English 
 for a garage. 
 
 Mark had seen the sign up in a side street . He directed 
 the man. He did not know that this was a youthful 
 garage, but half built, and that a better place was at 
 the end of the High Street. 
 
 The big car glided on. Its owner, after a few minutes, 
 came impatiently to the door of the restaurant to look 
 for it, and spoke to Mark. 
 
 “ Hi, there ! did you see a car ? " he questioned. 
 “ It's gone to the garage, you say. Run and hurry, like a 
 good man, if you know the place, and I'll give you some- 
 thing. Come back in it." 
 
 Mark smiled. He looked a loafer who would run 
 errands. 
 
 Mark hurried away, more for good nature than because 
 he thought of taking the money. The big, luxurious 
 car was standing silent in the street ; the place was 
 dimly lighted, and a vacuous youth was emptying tins 
 of petrol into the tank. 
 
 “ Tell the chauffeur, will you, to hurry ? To come out 
 at once ! " 
 
 “ Yes, sir." The petrol pourer recognised a gentle- 
 man's voice ; he went into the shop. Mark peered into 
 the car. It was warm at the back, and the big fur coat 
 lay on the seat. He had been told to come back in the 
 car. With a laugh he got out of the whip of the wind, 
 just as Gustave reached the door. 
 
 “All right, sah, I go," said Gustave, nipping up. 
 The S.C.A.T.T. owned a self-starter, and throbbed swiftly 
 into life. Mark Deering huddled down among the rugs 
 with his icy feet on a hot -water tin, blessing the shelter. 
 
 Then suddenly he saw they were flitting through the 
 
246 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 town, and not back to the restaurant. The lights gave 
 place to the open country, and the storm beat against 
 them. 
 
 Mark stood up, realising what had happened. Gustave 
 had jumped to the conclusion that his master had got 
 in, and was going on to his destination. 
 
 Mark got up to stop him, when the long day told ; he 
 reeled back, sick, giddy, half-conscious, quite unable to 
 speak. Feebly, he struggled into the fur coat to keep 
 warm, lay back blue-lipped and gasping, numb and 
 powerless. The icy chill, the long day's exposure had 
 been too much for him. 
 
 They were flying up a wide avenue when he caught 
 grip of his senses, the lighted windows of a house just in 
 front, and Mark thought grimly of what he would hear 
 when he struggled out of the car and told his tale. He 
 felt better now. 
 
 The car stopped. Someone ran down the steps, pulled 
 the door open. 
 
 " Come out, my dear Henderson. We were getting 
 anxious. Come along, and get warm. You've never 
 met any of us, and I'm sorry Frank could not come." 
 
 Muffled in the fur coat, his own soft hat pulled down 
 over his face, Mark was almost pulled out. 
 
 "Come to the warmth — it's arctic. Send the man 
 round." 
 
 Gustave was sitting woodenly, his hand ready on the 
 levers. He did not look round.. 
 
 That “ Come to the warmth " undid Mark. He had 
 never met any of them. They did not know him. Why 
 not get warm for half an hour ? 
 
 “ Bad luck, your man being laid up, too. Hudson, 
 take Sir Anthony's things — my man will look after you." 
 
 So the chauffeur was not his valet, and would not come 
 in to betray him. Mark walked up the steps, his eyes 
 on a stove glowing red in a comfortable hall. A fresh 
 storm of sleet made the night a horror of blackness. Come 
 what might, he would get warm for an hour. In happier 
 days Mark had been a humorist ; his eyes twinkled now. 
 
A GAMBLE FOR WARMTH 
 
 247 
 
 " You're perished. You look worn out. Will you 
 come into the drawing-room, or have something hot in 
 your room ? " 
 
 Mark decided on his room — decisively. He was 
 afraid they might see nis boots. He had not the faintest 
 idea whom he was speaking to. 
 
 The warmth almost hurt in its luxury, the softness 
 of thick rugs under icy feet, the glow of the roaring 
 fire. He took a glass of cherry brandy to bring back 
 strength to his failing heart. With a reckless grin, he 
 hoped Sir Anthony Henderson's clothes would fit him. 
 
 Then a thought struck him with a crisp chill of fear. 
 
 " Got a telephone here from the town ? " he asked. 
 
 “ A telephone ? Yes — put up lately. Hudson will 
 take you to it. I'll see to hot coffee for you ; you look 
 quite ill." 
 
 " A genial, old-fashioned host, looking after his guests 
 himself. 
 
 The telephone was in a small room. With a smile, 
 Mark Deering took off the receiver, and asked the butler 
 suddenly to see if a certain purple case had been for- 
 gotten. 
 
 "No man is likely to have a purple case," he said 
 thoughtfully, as he quite omitted to ring up, and also 
 to put the receiver back in its place. When he left 
 he switched the light off. 
 
 " Let the worst happen, I shall be warm for an hour," 
 he said. 
 
 He was nervously afraid that they might see his boots, 
 the cheap patched things which squelched about his feet. 
 He was taken to a chintz hung room, fresh and sweet, 
 a big fire roaring in a steel grate, a bed ready for a weary 
 man. 
 
 With something that was close to a sob, the outcast 
 held his hands to the blaze. Hudson was discreetly 
 distressed as to the missing purple case. 
 
 The chauffeur would not see him till the morning . . . 
 let the rest be. 
 
 Hudson had already unpacked the bags and laid out a 
 
248 IRISH ^STEW 
 
 change. “ Bath-room off this, sir,” he said, opening a 
 door ; “ one to every three rooms here, sir.” 
 
 Quickly Deering pulled off his sodden clothes, his 
 shabby boots, shoved them into a drawer, and turned 
 the key ; took up with qualms of doubt his borrowed 
 plumes. The man must be almost his height and size ; 
 he saw the coat before he went to his bath and turned 
 the steaming water on. 
 
 “This,” said Mark Deering, “is heaven.” Heaven 
 to feel the lap of the hot water, to smell good soap ; to 
 come out, with the blood astir in his numbed limbs, and 
 find a tray by his fire. Hot coffee, toast, a bottle of 
 liqueur. 
 
 Deering drank the coffee and laughed. This hour 
 was worth a week of prison. He shaved with Sir 
 Anthony Henderson 's safety razor ; he saw himself, 
 tall, cleanly made, cleanly bred, with a perfectly made 
 dress coat setting a little loosely on his thin shoulders, 
 with Sir Anthony Henderson's well-chosen links and 
 studs adorning a glossy white shirt. 
 
 “ If I had the right again,” Deering muttered, his 
 lips twisting. “ Well, what matter ! I'm warm.” 
 
 Hudson, returning, commenced to make decorous 
 search for the wet clothes and boots, to the accompani- 
 ment of a discreet silence of the guest. 
 
 “ Mr. Elliot, sir, wishes to see you. ” 
 
 Deering started as if he had been stung. Elliot 
 had been his employer's name. Now he remembered 
 that the man who had caused him to be dismissed had 
 a brother living close to Blackminster. 
 
 Deering smiled a little. The world was a curious one, 
 but it was warm. The air in the passage was warm ; 
 the flickering glow of blazing fires came from half-open 
 doors. For two hours' warmth he would play the play 
 to its last line. 
 
 Mr. Elliot waited in the library. Looking round it, 
 Deering saw that curtains hid a door into another room ; 
 the man-servant pulled them to more closely before he 
 went out. 
 
A GAMBLE FOR WARMTH 
 
 249 
 
 What next ? Deering stood near a great glowing 
 fire, he listened to the crackling pelt of hail against the 
 windows, listened and shivered ; and vet his eves twinkled 
 a little. 
 
 “ It was too bad Frank's being unable to get away." 
 Elliot spoke a little nervously. “ Come, Sir Anthony, 
 we'd better run over the matter now." 
 
 Mark said, thoughtfully, that it would be better. 
 
 “ You know so much depends on you," Elliot got, as 
 it were, into his stride, " everything. Vera is waiting 
 for your opinion. Even if we've never seen you, she 
 thinks so much of you. Her brother, you know, swore 
 by your lightest breath. Come, Henderson, if my 
 brother's boy has sinned, he has repented. The matter's 
 not public yet. We believe you could stop this Richard- 
 son's mouth." 
 
 Francis Elliot's son ! Mark looked into the fire — 
 And he was here to plead for him ! He laughed again, 
 softly, to himself. 
 
 “ It was a mad act — a boy's folly. Shall we go over 
 it ? " 
 
 Then, listening, Mark heard how this boy, Frank 
 Elliot, had borrowed money from some funds, which he 
 held for a college entertainment. How, kept absolutely 
 short by his father, he had been found short of twenty 
 pounds, and had to write to his uncle for it. How 
 Richardson, his enemy, threatened to call it theft, and 
 to expose young Elliot. 
 
 “ It's a cobweb — a tissue," Elliot thundered, "but 
 Vera is honour's soul. She knows, can see no excuse. 
 My brother's heart — mine — is set on this match coming 
 off. We thought of you . . . she has promised to 
 forgive him if you speak for him. Tell her how care- 
 lessly he slipped ; how straight a fellow he's been at 
 Cambridge ; how much you've seen of him. A first 
 offence — a boy's folly." 
 
 Dimly across the gulf of the bitter years, Mark heard 
 his own voice pleading in those very words to Francis 
 Elliot. And now . . . 
 
250 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 “ Vera Delany's wealth is fabulous ; the business 
 totters ; it means everything if she provides this money.” 
 
 4 4 Oh, you here, Gardy ? ” 
 
 A girl came into the room, a tall girl, with a small 
 proud face, with proud grey eyes and mutinous curved 
 red lips, scarlet against the soft pallor of her skin. 
 
 " You and Sir Anthony,” she said with her hand 
 outstretched. 
 
 Love at first sight ; some strange sympathy of soul 
 to soul ; of mind to mind. As Mark Deering, outcast, 
 wastrel, impostor, met the searching glance of the grey 
 eyes he knew that he had met the one being he could and 
 must love. He held her hand, forgot to let it go, until 
 the colour rose in her creamy cheeks and her eyes 
 dropped. 
 
 “ It was good of you to come,” she said, a little un- 
 steadily. 
 
 “ Til leave you two.” Elliot hurried out of the room 
 which held this girl. It was well to make believe, to 
 dream that Mark Deering was once more a gentleman, 
 who might stand in peace, and not shoulder for his corner 
 of a fire in a shelter, or shiver in his miserable lodging. 
 It was his hour. He laughed recklessly, and with the 
 grim humour at the back of his brain. 
 
 “ We'll talk of Frank after dinner,” he said, “ when 
 I know you better.” 
 
 He saw her eyes light at his audacity. She sat down, 
 smiling. 
 
 " You are very young for your age,” she said lightly 
 
 So for half an hour they talked, and with each word 
 grew into old friends and not new acquaintances. Once, 
 touching on the storm outside, he told how the poor 
 lived, and how cold was their worst fear and enemy. 
 Cold which hurt, raw cold, damp cold, aching in sodden 
 feet. Cold in a hard bed. Cold when one had eaten 
 in a reeking room and went out to the streets once more. 
 
 ^ She listened, with her proud eyes growing kind, her 
 red lips softening. 
 
 “ You talk as one who has felt it,” she said. “ Oh, 
 
A GAMBLE FOR WARMTH 
 
 251 
 
 Sir Anthony, I do not wonder now that men steal for 
 the means to be warm.” 
 
 “They do more than that . . . sometimes,” he said 
 drily. 
 
 When the gong boomed they were talking eagerly ; 
 they heard it impatiently. 
 
 Mr. Elliot came in with another girl ; a pretty, curly- 
 headed child of eighteen, who was visibly conscious of 
 her pink and white skin, her blue eyes and graceful 
 figure. 
 
 With a little inward smile Mark realised that this Miss 
 Stannard thought herself the beauty, Vera almost plain. 
 
 He hoped he would eat decorously. White damask, 
 crisp rolls, the gleam of silver and scent of flowers, went 
 to his head like wine. 
 
 Outside the hail lashed the sodden earth, and there 
 was the cold he must go back to. 
 
 Restraint made him take small helpings, try not to 
 look too longingly at a dish of tiny cutlets, to dally with 
 his slice of turkey, because once finished he might never 
 see turkey again. It was a simple dinner, beautifully 
 cooked. 
 
 Afraid of champagne, Mark took whisky and Perrier, 
 but his glass of good port gave him fresh courage for his 
 mad adventure. 
 
 Vera Delany sat opposite him, her grey eyes shining 
 softly, her red mouth relaxed to softness. Lettice 
 Stannard chattered beside him, girl's chatter, with merry 
 side glances flung up at her unheeding partner, and little 
 pouts when she found they were not noticed. 
 
 Nine ! The clock on the mantel-shelf chimed it out 
 softly. He could scarcely hope for the spell of madness 
 to endure for the night. 
 
 “ I'll wait in the library,” Vera said. “ You'll find 
 me there." 
 
 Mark went to find her standing by the fire, holding 
 out her slender white hands to it, shivering a little at the 
 chill of the night. And he . . . must go soon out 
 into it again in his thin, damp clothes. 
 
252 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 “Now talk to me of Frank/' she said imperiously. 
 “ Afterwards we have the evening for other things." 
 
 “ Was that a motor ? " he lifted his head, listening. 
 
 " No — only the storm. No motor is likely to come 
 here to-night. Come, Sir Anthony, I am too particular, 
 they tell me. I hold that funds which do not belong to 
 you are sacred things — that Frank will only meet his 
 reward if his folly is exposed ; but you, they say you 
 know him so well . . . and my brother thought your 
 word law, Sir Anthony." 
 
 He was there to plead for a weak, foolish boy, for the 
 son of the man who had ruined him. If he spoke evil 
 things they would cling and live as evil things do ; even 
 with the coming of the real Sir Anthony this girl would 
 not forget them ; she see-sawed between forgiveness and 
 contempt. Her money meant everything to a tottering 
 house of business ; but a boy wanted help. 
 
 He drew a long breath ; looked hard at the pale little 
 face set so proudly ; at the grey eyes of the one woman 
 he would love for all time. Then he spoke — these people 
 trusted him ; he would do his part. He pleaded, not for 
 the absent boy, but for youth, for youth's folly, for 
 youth's carelessness. 
 
 He told his own story. Of another boy who had slipped, 
 and had rolled to oblivion because no brake of forgiveness 
 was set against the wheels of his life. He pleaded 
 eloquently as though he knew his enemy's son. 
 
 Once Vera interrupted him. “ You are so much 
 younger than I thought you were, and you look so kind," 
 she said. “ Well, go on — I am listening." 
 
 “ I've finished," Deering said. He grew suddenly 
 tired, cold even in the warm room ; the whole thing had 
 tired him out. He had said all he could for youth and 
 youth's folly ; he could see how it would end. White 
 satin, wedding favours ; the slender, proud bride making 
 her vows. 
 
 Vera laid her fingers on his coat sleeve. “ I have 
 someone to speak to — I'll come back," she said gently. 
 “ Wait for me here." 
 
A GAMBLE FOR WARMTH 
 
 253 
 
 Mark Deering threw some logs on the fire ; the cur- 
 tains stirred behind him. A young dark boy hurried in. 
 It was over. Elliot's son was unmistakably like his 
 father. Deering s thin jaw set ; he remembered the boy 
 as a child. 
 
 “ You ! What does it mean ? Who are you ? " 
 Young Francis stared, slack-jawed. “ I don't under- 
 stand. I overheard, you know, in there. I was getting 
 a drink and some sandwiches. Who are you, and why 
 did you plead so hard for me — a stranger ? " 
 
 “ Not for you — for youth," Deering said quietly, “ for 
 my own ghost." 
 
 “Come in here." Young Francis pushed aside the 
 curtains, going into the little room Deering had pretended 
 to telephone from. The receiver was still off. 
 
 “Fairy tales," said Deering calmly, “are curious 
 things. Listen to mine." He told his story from its 
 beginning in the town. 
 
 Young Francis listened very carefully. Behind his 
 weakness lay some shrewd sense and kindness. 
 
 44 I've heard my father talk of a man called Deering. 
 You talked as if you had felt the story you were telling 
 about the other young fool who erred. Are you by chance 
 that Deeding ? " 
 
 “That Deering whom your father ruined," Mark 
 answered drearily. “ Yes." 
 
 “And you did your best for me to-night. . . . Why?" 
 
 “For youth — not for you," Mark shot out. “To 
 lose a girl like that one might drive a strong man to the 
 devil. I spoke for the memory of what I suffered. 
 Come, it's time for me to get out . . . into the cold, 
 if you'll let me go quietly." 
 
 Frank Elliot sat down and muttered that he was 
 bio wed . Also that he could not imagine why Sir Anthony 
 had not rung up. 
 
 “ If you'd look at the telephone " said Deering 
 
 politely. 
 
 Young Frank replaced the receiver, to be almost 
 immediately called up. An indignantly irate voice said 
 
254 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 it was trying once again as a last hope, and seemed sur- 
 prised to receive an answer. The disappearance of his 
 chauffeur and car, the impossibility of hiring a motor in 
 Littlehampton, was rasped over the wires. “ I waited 
 for two hours for my fellow, " almost wailed Sir Anthony. 
 " Then I looked for a car — couldn't get one." 
 
 Frank Elliot gazed plaintively into the mouthpiece. 
 He looked at Deering. 
 
 " Tell him his car is here — that you'll send it for him 
 at once. That there is a complete explanation. And 
 now — I came here to get warm — let me go quietly, will 
 you ? ” 
 
 “ Out into that ? ” young Elliot muttered, listening 
 to the storm. 
 
 The wind was rising, howling gustily ; pulling back the 
 curtains one could see the ground was white with hail 
 and sleet. 
 
 “ Out into that," Deering said grimly. “ I have 
 been warm for a few hours. I chanced it all for that. 
 I can slip away." 
 
 They went up to the bright room where Sir Anthony's 
 pyjamas were toasting by the fire, and Sir Anthony's 
 thick dressing-gown hanging across a chair. Deering 
 pulled out clothes which were clammy with damp ; he 
 looked at his sodden, patched boots. He got into them, 
 feeling their bitter chill. 
 
 “ I'll lend you an overcoat. You must let me. You 
 can return it when your own is dry," Elliot said. “ And 
 I'll drive you to the station. I'm not altogether a brute 
 
 Mark slipped down to wait in the little room behind 
 the library. His adventure was over, and he could not 
 even say good-bye ; but the memory of a small pale 
 face, of proud lips, and deep grey eyes, would be with 
 him through the cold. 
 
 The curtains parted. Vera came in. 
 
 “ So," the girl said, “ you are a vagrant, an impostor ? 
 I came back and listened as you talked to Frank." 
 
 " This is a dangerous room," Mark answered gravely. 
 
 " Yes, for impostors — for " She came forward 
 
A GAMBLE FOR WARMTH 
 
 255 
 
 quickly. ... " For poor souls who dread the cold. 
 
 I've heard my guardian say, Mr. Deering, how hardly 
 they treated you. And with all that, you did your best 
 for me about Frank.” 
 
 “ Not about Frank — about youth and intolerance,” 
 he answered in a tired voice. “ You'll marry him, then. 
 See how little it was. ... I spoke with a fellow feeling, 
 you see.” 
 
 She laughed . “I never dreamt of marrying him . I'd 
 promised to lend him a big sum of money to start his 
 business afresh, and in time to marry Lettice. After 
 this I said I would not give it. There was no thought 
 of my marrying the boy.” 
 
 " Oh ! ” And nothing could stop the glad flash which 
 leapt into Deering's eyes as he looked at her. 
 
 The girl flushed faintly ; stood as one in a dream. 
 
 “ And now — good-bye,” he said. “ Will you forgive 
 me my gamble to get warm ? . . . I couldn't resist it. 
 You heard me tell the fairy tale." 
 
 “ If you would like to keep warm — that is, generally,” 
 a glimmer of laughter lit her grey eyes, “ I've a place in 
 Worcestershire, and my head man's leaving. I want 
 to run it properly. Prize cows — flowers — and so on. 
 You'll do it for me, will you ? ” 
 
 Mark sat down suddenly. “ But any pig could fool 
 me,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. “ And as 
 for a cow . . .” 
 
 “ Please try. You'll go to London, leave me your 
 address ; the day after to-morrow you'll travel to Beech 
 End, and find everything ready. I go down often myself 
 — in fact, I live there.” 
 
 ” But — but ” Deering got up again, “ I am a 
 
 failure, a vagrant, a one-time thief. Have you realised, ” 
 his jaw shot out, 0 that if I am there I shall see you, 
 often — and if I meet you ...” 
 
 “ I have realised that,” she answered steadily, an 
 answering light in her eyes. “ And perhaps . . . that 
 is why I ask you to go there.” 
 
 Mark Deering took her hands in his, held them for a 
 
256 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 minute, and knew that Fate had led him to a path where 
 he could walk on to a greater warmth than fire could 
 give. 
 
 " I shall give you your expenses — Frank will,” said 
 Miss Delany formally, as young Elliot came in. 
 “ And a change of boots. Get some, Frank.” 
 
 Mark went out by a back door into the bitter night, but 
 he had left sorrow behind him, and the hail had lost 
 its power to sting. 
 
MEAVE’S RIDE 
 
ME AYE’S RIDE 
 
 G REY clouds billowed and eddied over a back 
 ground of pallid blue ; sometimes their edges 
 were softened to pearl, with lights of silver and 
 gold through the white ; sometimes they met 
 and massed and lowered greyly and ran more slowly 
 before the sobbing wind. 
 
 Cahircullane Castle looks down across a stretch of 
 green park-land, with gnarled old trees standing too 
 thickly in it, to wide tracts of bog and rock and on to 
 where the Cullane river runs between it and the distant 
 Murvoe Hills. Peace itself seemed to live in the soft 
 evening light, in the uneven whisper of the west wind as 
 it whistled through the new-clothed trees, in the calm 
 of the wild country, the quiet of the big terraced house. 
 
 The castle seemed to stand asleep, until voices rose 
 from the stables, with clatter of buckets and the sough 
 of a pump at work, and then slept again until fresh 
 voices, low and ill-humoured, broke from a batch of 
 straggling, unclipped laurels beyond the sunk fence. 
 
 ‘ ‘ If he dares to do it I tell ye we will do for him ; thim 
 
 days is done with, they is done " 
 
 “ He says that he will have me out — that Miss Meave 
 wants the place for her dogs/' 
 
 “ It will be onhealthy for the dogs," Marty Connell 
 said grimly. “ As 'tis but a handle he is making of Miss 
 
 Meave s name. A handle, Mike Malone " 
 
 Two sturdy country fellows crouched in the laurels, 
 evidently escaping observation. Big, good-tempered 
 looking men, children at heart, easy to lead and manage, 
 save when the land-hunger touched them. Driven on 
 
26 o 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 by the all-powerful League, led as the children they 
 were, their rights must not be touched. 
 
 Sir Shamus O'Neill had not sold his big estate. He 
 was old-fashioned, liked to hold the reins of power in his 
 fingers, and even with the Leagues urging them, his 
 tenants hung back, making no effort to buy. Sir 
 Shamus might swear at them, ride recklessly where he 
 chose, insist on his rents, but if a bad year came he knew 
 how to help them ; if a small farmer's cow died the 
 steward at the castle would have orders to replace it. 
 He bought hay and straw and oats lavishly, he lived as 
 his fathers had done — lord of his land, but always 
 generous, and he gave open warning that once he was 
 no longer landlord his days of help were done with. 
 
 “ When I am gone, Meave can sell," he said. “ She'd 
 only muddle it all " 
 
 And now there was trouble. Sir Shamus, in ill- 
 health, had gone away for a sea-voyage. Meave O'Neill 
 stayed at the castle with a meek aunt as chaperon, and 
 her cousin, Peter Barry, the agent, found out that it 
 was not so easy to keep things going. 
 
 Mike Malone, a ne'er-do-well tenant, who held a 
 cottage on the banks of the Cullane, had not paid his 
 rent for years ; sometimes he came smilingly with a 
 pound or two, sometimes he did not. Miss Meave had 
 started otter hounds, and she wanted the cottage for 
 herself to camp out in ; there were outhouses which 
 could be turned into kennels; the cottage was stout 
 and comfortable. Malone never paid and Malone must 
 go. . . . 
 
 “ And I tell you there will be trouble, Meave, and you 
 are foolish." 
 
 Fresh voices breaking the silence now as two people 
 came out on the terrace. 
 
 The watchers in the laurels crouched low. 
 
 “ And I tell you I shall do as I choose, Peter, and you 
 will have the sheriff, and send Mike packing. I've 
 offered him money. I've done all I can, and I want the 
 house ” 
 
MEAVE'S RIDE 
 
 261 
 
 Fair-skinned, grey-eyed, youthfully imperious, Meave 
 O'Neill was a spoilt child to her finger-tips. Peter loved 
 her ; he would have been stone and not man if he had 
 hunted, fished, and played tennis with her for two years 
 and not done so. Meave condescended to like him, and 
 to promise to marry him — some day. 
 
 “ Very well." Peter smoked a pipe philosophically. 
 “ I obey your order. I've had no answer from Sir 
 Shamus, and he left you in charge. They'll shoot me, no 
 doubt, and then you'll come and weep over me at 
 Moyarta and be sorry. You may keep Diver." 
 
 Diver was the nondescript beast whose forefathers 
 had alliances with water spaniels and retrievers, while 
 his nearer relatives would seem to have been terriers. 
 But his eyes were liquid brown and all the intelligence 
 of varied races seemed to have concentrated behind 
 them. 
 
 “ They are talkin' about meself," Mike muttered ; the 
 crouching men were too far off to hear what the others 
 were saying. “ Look at her pinting out beyant — to me 
 house." 
 
 Meave O'Neill's pointing finger wavered across an 
 area which might have represented several miles of 
 country, but Mike believed it was focussed on his 
 particular cottage. 
 
 Diver put his silky head against his master's hand, 
 and Meave laughed scornfully. 
 
 " I shall pay the man," he said. “ Hennessy's little 
 house is empty, and we don't mind getting no rent for 
 that." Peter sighed with marked resignation ; he made 
 a quotation concerning fools and angels, and his cousin, 
 with heightened colour, retaliated with something about 
 cowards — just as the butler brought tea into the library. 
 
 Mr. Peter Barry's temper was far from being angelic ; 
 he got up with ominous calmness, and did not improve 
 it by an absent-minded gulp of scalding tea, which had 
 no sugar in, and he liked it sweet. 
 
 Miss Eva O'Neill was out driving ; she adored paying 
 calls. Presently, after a prolonged pause, Peter said 
 
262 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 that he really believed Meave cared far more about her 
 childish whim of the cottage than she did about any 
 danger which he, Peter, might run into — and he might 
 have known that no girl of twenty could possibly 
 overlook the word "childish.” They had reached the 
 stage of stony and bitter politeness when old Dayly, the 
 butler, came in with another relay of hot cakes. " An' 
 just to tell ye, Mister Peter, that there's black work on 
 foot,'' he almost whispered. "Let Mike Malone be, 
 sir ; he comes of a wild stock. He was over to the town 
 but yesterday, and I heard tell he was buyin' 
 catheridges.'' 
 
 " If he's a bad lot we shall be well rid of him,'' 
 scoffed Meave, " that's all ; it helps things.” 
 
 Dayly put down his cakes with the sapient remark 
 that it was very ugly to put ye'r hand in a wild bee's 
 nest — and that he wished the masther was back 
 again. 
 
 " He havin' sense,” said Dayly regretfully. He still 
 looked on Meave as a baby. " Sure, ye cannot put ould 
 heads on to young shoulders.” 
 
 " If you are not careful, Dayly, I shall send you out 
 with Mike Malone,” stormed Miss O'Neill fiercely. 
 
 To which old Dayly said, " Aisy, missy,” very 
 soothingly, and without the faintest emotion. 
 
 "To-morrow, then,” Peter got up, "I shall see 
 about this business, and finally warn Malone ; those are 
 your orders, Meave — you prefer your own way to 
 anything else.” 
 
 Meave burst out that she certainly did, that she was 
 mistress in her father's absence, and would do as she 
 chose, and she finished up by further hints as to cowardly 
 people not dealing with the Irish or taking up agencies. 
 
 " Mike Malone and Marty Connell is outside to see yer 
 honour,” announced Dayly, coming back. 
 
 The men could not have come at a worse time. 
 
 Meave sat and fumed while Peter interviewed, to 
 stroll back presently with his face quietly set. 
 
 " Malone quite understands now,” he said coldly. 
 
HEAVE'S RIDE 
 
 263 
 
 " He has had all the grace that is possible, and I shall 
 go to Cullane to-morrow to settle with Keogh, for 
 Malone says he won't go quietly ; that is all . . 
 
 Not quite all ; he stood waiting, foolish enough to 
 expect sense from a thoroughly vexed girl. 
 
 “ And — if you insist upon this," he said, after a pause, 
 “ on my obeying orders as merely agent and servitor, 
 that is all I shall be for the future, Meave." 
 
 It ended in one of those foolish quarrels of youth : in 
 Meave telling him that he could do as he chose, and 
 rolling an emerald ring across the table, and promising 
 to send back everything else ; and in Peter's flying out of 
 the house, swearing he would never come into it again ; 
 and in Miss Meave watching him go with her head very 
 high, and telling herself proudly that she was simply 
 delighted to be rid of him, delighted — and at the third 
 “ delighted " in her putting her head on the table and 
 sobbing bitterly to show her joy. 
 
 At this point Aunt Eva entered with the annoying 
 quietness of light -footed spinsters, and Meave had to 
 explain. 
 
 “ A wasp stung me," flung out Miss O'Neill fiercely, 
 “on the face — it hurts." 
 
 “ A wasp ? My poor child ! But it is only May," 
 said Miss O'Neill a minute later, as she scurried to the 
 kitchen for the blue-bag and some soda — “ wasps in 
 May . . . how odd. . . ." 
 
 Still, the remedies cured Meave, but affected her 
 appetite, and she ate no dinner ; and the wind had risen, 
 sobbing round the old castle, bringing splatters of rain 
 against the window panes. 
 
 Halfway through dinner Miss Eva asked for Peter ; 
 at ten o'clock she noticed that the emerald no longer 
 gleamed on Meave 's finger. 
 
 “ I might have known," said Sir Shamus's sister 
 wisely, “ that there were no wasps in May." 
 
 Next day the clouds had rolled away, the world was 
 sunlit, with a keen wind blowing coolly, the thorn 
 bushes were puffs of powder scattered on emerald turf. 
 
264 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 the tall tulips in the garden flared gaudily in the sun- 
 shine. It was a day to love life, but Meave O'Neill, 
 aged only twenty, called it cold and dark and horrible, 
 and could not find anything to do which pleased her. 
 She could not ride her big blood horse. Bargate was 
 exercised by Ted, the only boy he allowed on his back. 
 In the afternoon Meave drove towards the river, and saw 
 Mike Malone planting cabbages as if he never meant to 
 stir. 
 
 Meave 's Sunbeam was a source of danger to dogs and 
 carts as she let it out going home ; the chauffeur set his 
 teeth more than once as they whizzed round bends, but 
 being Irish, he hoped not to die before his time came. 
 As they reached the avenue a back tyre went off with a 
 whish, and the spare wheel had scarcely been adjusted 
 when the second tyre banged furiously. 
 
 Dickson got out for the second time, peering at the 
 avenue. 
 
 “ Playin' games here with glass, miss," he announced 
 significantly ; “ the place is covered with broken 
 
 bottles." 
 
 Two tyres were gashed to ribbons — a third was not 
 likely to survive ; there was nothing for it except to 
 crawl to the yard and do repairs next day. Dickson was 
 going home that evening for his sister's wedding, so the 
 repairing would be delayed. 
 
 Meave walked home in a bad humour. She was 
 restless, ill at ease. All day she had listened for the 
 thrum of a motor-bicycle or the crunch of a horse's feet — 
 she had wailed for Peter, passed from the stage of being 
 prepared to receive him haughtily to that of abject 
 contrition, or to resentment again. 
 
 Her aunt was dining out. Meave saw the brougham 
 depart with the twenty-year-old carriage horse prancing 
 down the avenue as if he were but four ; then she 
 ordered her own dinner to be put back until nine, and 
 went out. A clear chill twilight held the May evening. 
 It would be moonlight early, with black shadows and 
 silver lights ghostlike across the park. Meave turned 
 
MEAVE’S RIDE 
 
 265 
 
 into the woods, where the high wall looked down on to 
 the road. If Peter came she would hear the thrum of 
 the motor, and rush back to the house through the trees 
 to stroll down from her room as though she had never 
 thought of him. 
 
 Two men came slouching along the road. She drew 
 back, hiding in the branches which overhung the wall. 
 They stopped close to her. She heard the splutter of a 
 match, and, peering, saw Mike Malone and his friend 
 Connell. 
 
 “ And so faix he’ll pay to-night,” Mike said. 
 
 Meave caught the boughs so that they rustled. Her 
 heart seemed beating in her throat. 
 
 “ Ye are not afraid, Mike, o’ bein’ cot ? ” 
 
 “ Won’t Mike Malone be in his house in another hour, 
 and yourself with him for all to see, an’ he firin’ off his 
 guns for the neighbours to hear? — an’ besides,” the 
 man’s voice dropped to a fierce whisper, “ there is no 
 shootin’ in it ; a broken neck tells no tales.” 
 
 A broken neck ! Frozen, holding her breath, Meave 
 looked down. 
 
 “ He will be late out. He to wit his man he would 
 'dine to-night with Doctor Flannogan. Tom and 
 Mack’ll have the rope out ready where the two threes 
 sthands up before the bog and the turn is suddint. If 
 Pether Barry turns out more poor men after that ’twill 
 be a quare sthory, the pace he rides.” 
 
 They were going to rope the way, to catch the bicycle 
 as it flew along the lonely road. Meave could see it — 
 the figure flung on the hard stones, bruised and broken, 
 if not dead. And — she knew now — the man she had 
 mocked at and quarrelled with was all the world to her. 
 
 She could save him in the car ; then, with a sob, she 
 remembered that the car was useless, and Dickson away. 
 The horses ! A man could gallop. The only horse was 
 her own Bargate, and the boy who could ride him slept 
 two miles away from the castle. 
 
 “ They’re sayin’ ’tis Miss Meave ’s fault, that hidin’ 
 he is,” she heard the voices again. “ He has a shpite 
 
 1* 
 
266 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 agin’ meself ever since he cot me gettin' a few robbits up 
 here, and I spoke short to him. Come on ; we shud be 
 home. The pony cart is above at the forge.” 
 
 The voices and steps died away. White-faced, 
 terror-stricken, Meave stepped away towards the house. 
 The path had never seemed so long ; the boughs caught 
 at her, her feet slipped on uneven places, the avenue had 
 surely doubled its length ; and she looked behind, afraid 
 that the men might have heard her. 
 
 The castle stood grey against the moonlight, its bulk 
 quiet and massive. 
 
 <r Miss Meave, ye were running. Asthore, what is 
 it?” 
 
 Dayly forgot the child had grown up as he saw the 
 girl, scratched, drawing sobbing breaths, run up the steps. 
 
 “ Dayly, it's Peter. Quick, come to the stables ; 
 they're killing him.” 
 
 Some portions of the story were gasped out as Meave 
 rushed to the- stables. The coachman was out ; 
 saddles, straps, girths were enchanted things, hiding 
 themselves away. Bargate sidled and lashed out at 
 them, resenting disturbance. A bit was crammed 
 between his unwilling teeth, and he was led out in the 
 worst of tempers. Twice he plunged away from the 
 mounting block, kicking irritably ; then, as in her 
 ordinary dress Meave landed in the saddle, the big clock 
 above the archway chimed a quarter past eight. It 
 was nine miles to the bog road which led from Dr. 
 Flannagan's house to Peter's, barely five across the 
 fields. Meave set her -teeth, and determined to go 
 across country. 
 
 Bargate humped his great back as he clattered over 
 the stones ; then as his feet fell on the cool grass outside 
 the swing gate he plunged and flung light-heartedly, 
 reaching out into a ralung canter. With a thrill of 
 dismay Meave realised that the horse had a light snaffle 
 in"his mouth, and not the long bit she rode him in. She 
 steadied him with difficulty at the stout gates, called to 
 the woman there to open the one opposite. 
 
MEAVE'S RIDE 267 
 
 “ Miss Meave, where are ye goin' to so late ? Ye 
 will be hurted.” 
 
 " I will not, Bridget. I must not be.” 
 
 The hill rose before her cold and shadowy, black bars 
 showing the high, narrow banks. Meave steadied the 
 great horse up the steep rise, felt her heart thump as 
 they came at the first ghostly fence. Bargate had 
 never refused. With a snort, his ears perched forward, 
 his strong quarters humped — he was over with a 
 scramble. Meave knew the small place here, near the 
 gorse, but further on she must ride blindly at the wide 
 banks, and ride fast if she was to be in time. Faster 
 than she wanted to, when the great hill seemed to fall 
 away into a sea of silver. Bargate, maddened by the 
 dewy night, stretched himself recklessly. Through 
 meadows, high and fragrant, over sprouting com. Cows 
 sprang away from them ; the pair were as phantom 
 horse and rider fleeting through the elusive light. 
 
 Danny Heggarty, staggering home to his long- 
 suffering wife, stood cursing himself frantically, when, as 
 he described it, a black horse spoutin' fire from his nose 
 galloped through the air over the finces, with a devil in 
 white crooked up on his back — and twice it called him be 
 name. 
 
 Which was true, for Meave had shouted at him to get 
 out of the way. 
 
 “ Never another drop,” said Danny, " or the next time 
 I'd be whipt up behind the rider.” 
 
 How many times Bargate nearly missed his active feet 
 Meave dared not think of. The big brute seemed 
 untirable as he flew on. Black shadows which she knew 
 to be wide ditches slipped beneath them ; twice she 
 heard the twang of wire. She steadied the horse in 
 deep, churning ground. They were down in the hollow 
 now, with the bog road not half a mile away. There 
 were huge ditches here with crumbling banks, difficult 
 to jump in the daytime ; horrors, as a wedge of black 
 across the silver plain. 
 
 They landed into a field of plough — hedges ran all 
 
268 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 round — with posts which spoke of wire flickering white 
 on the bank. There was no other way out. Meave 
 knew the field, and the gate at the end. She galloped 
 to it, Bargate pulling hard. It was, of course, shut. If 
 she got down she might never climb up again. If she 
 had to run she might be too late ; yet could any horse 
 clear these five black bars out of a rutty track in the 
 elusive, treacherous light ? 
 
 She was answered. Bargate had got his wind. He 
 raked his head away and sailed to the gate with a snort. 
 Took off too soon, dashed against the top bar, landed 
 on his knees, lay, rolled, and was up again — without a 
 fafi. 
 
 Mr. Andrew Clancy never knew what smashed his 
 gate in the night. 
 
 Meave could see the road now. She rode carefully, 
 found a broken-down spot in the boggy bank fencing it, 
 and wheeled on to the broad strip of grass which ran 
 between the road and the bog ditches. Bargate 's great 
 stride ate up the yards. He flung himself on, glorying 
 in his own pace. Far off, through the rush of air, Meave 
 heard the throb of a motor. 
 
 Two crouching figures heard it also, and with it the 
 pound of the hoofs. 
 
 “ There is a loose horse come ; run out an' beckon at 
 him,” one whispered. The rope was taut across the 
 road, a short way from the ground, carefully tied to trees 
 at both sides. They meant to take it away, and leave 
 no trace where Peter lay smashed on the hard stones. 
 Throb, throb ; Meave heard it, coming fast. She lost 
 her head in an agony of sheer terror. If the two were 
 farther off than she thought, the throb might stop any 
 moment, the murderous rope do its work, and she 
 would be the real murderer. 
 
 “ I shall have killed him ! ” muttered Meave. " Oh, 
 I shall have killed him.” 
 
 Something darted out of the shadows waving its 
 hands. Her hunting crop, held ready, swished across a 
 man's face, left a red wheal there, and fell on Bargate 's 
 
MEAVE’S RIDE 269 
 
 shoulder. His long, easy gallop was as a crawl to his 
 sudden, wrathful burst of speed. 
 
 Someone shouted loudly. The world of silver and 
 black fled from under Meave as the horse crashed 
 down, and she was flung far out on the soft turf at the 
 side of the road. 
 
 Peter, fleeting round the comer, heard the wild yell, 
 slackened speed just in time to see Bargate scramble 
 to his feet, blown and terrified, and to see a black smudge 
 on the side of the road stir faintly. 
 
 " Peter, the rope — Peter ! ” Meave struggled to her 
 knees ; " the rope.” She believed that she had been 
 there for hours, that her whole ride had been in vain, 
 and she would see Peter lying dead in the moonlight. 
 
 Someone was lifting her. 
 
 " I won’t be helped, as you’ve killed him, ” stammered 
 Meave. " No, I won’t. Oh, Peter — Peter ! Where is 
 Peter ? ” 
 
 " Meave, what is it ? ” It was Peter who was helping 
 her. 
 
 " Murder,” wailed Meave, "and Bargate and I are 
 dead, but we were in time.” 
 
 Then she felt the world reel again. 
 
 " Bargate is all right, and you will be, but what are 
 you doing here ? ” 
 
 Listening, Peter heard something scrambling through 
 thorns, and, leaping into the bank, saw two figures 
 scurrying away along a fence ; then they disappeared 
 in the shadows. 
 
 There was no rope now on the road, nothing to show 
 it had been there. Peter looked carefully when he had 
 heard the story, when he knew, with a shudder, what 
 Meave had risked for him. 
 
 " You cared — so much as that ? ” he whispered ; "to 
 ride across those fences in the moonlight to save me ? ” 
 
 " And all the time as I rode I could see that rope,” 
 said Meave tearfully, " and felt that I had done it ; and 
 poor Bargate ’s shoulder is all cut — and it was all my 
 fault, all mine.” 
 
270 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 “ And so you'll just marry me when your father 
 comes home, and all your faults will be on my shoulders/' 
 said Peter stoutly. 
 
 Mike Malone, waiting for judgment to fall upon him, 
 guessing and fearing that someone must have overheard 
 or found out, was surprised to find that the matter 
 seemed to have dropped completely, so he was reassured, 
 and planted more cabbages. 
 
 “ Twas only that wild one, ridin' out be chance," 
 said Mike. 
 
 But later on he decided that the air of America would 
 suit him better than that of Ireland. That was after 
 Meave 's wedding, when the bride stopped coming down 
 the path from the church and spoke to him. 
 
 “ Have you no present for me, Mike ? " said Meave 
 softly. 
 
 Mike, flushing fiercely, stammered unreadily. 
 
 " I thought you might have had a spare rope," said 
 Meave quietly. “ Unless you're keeping it to lend the 
 country when they want it for you in gaol." 
 
 Mike remarked, “ God save us !" as he backed away 
 among the tombstones. 
 
 He left the cottage himself after that, but Meave 
 would not use it. She shuddered at its name. 
 
 Bargate's picture hangs on the dining-room wall, 
 crowned by a little silver crescent, and underneath it 
 the words, “ Meave 's Ride. May, 1912." 
 
PHIL PHELAN’S PHANTASY 
 
1 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
 1 
 
PHIL PHELAN'S PHANTASY 
 
 ESELF I think I am for the Germins," 
 said Phil Phelan, leaning on his spade. 
 
 Phil's attitude through life was to 
 lean when possible, but as he rested he 
 
 kept watchful eye on the low door of his cottage lest 
 Anastasia Phelan, his old sister, might look out and 
 see him idling. He feared Stasy. 
 
 " D'ye say so now ? " replied Connor Naylor equably. 
 “ An' you should know, Phil, having travelled far." 
 
 Phil had once gone to Liverpool as a labourer. 
 
 Phil Phelan's little house stood just outside the wall 
 of the Infantry Barracks at Bally Boggan, In 1915 
 two regiments were stationed there ; the giant grey mass 
 of building, reared in the bleak unattractiveness which 
 marks the homes of the king's men, was cut clear against 
 an amber and opal-hued evening sky. A high wall 
 enclosed the wide irregular square. To the south the 
 town crouched in a hollow, a straggling place, a few 
 factory chimneys still belching smoke; the noise of the 
 trains at the railway station could be heard, faintly 
 distant whistles and puffs. 
 
 Phil's cottage crouched beside the high wall. 'A few 
 flowers protested against Anastasia's industry as they 
 poked up weak shoots in a square flower-bed, their 
 fragrance drowned by the manure heap. A little square 
 haggard ran down to the wide main road leading from 
 Bally Boggan to Cara, and in one comer of it Phil had 
 erected a wooden seat, screened from view by an ill- 
 clipped arch of thorn. 
 
274 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 " I'd say their cornin' 'd do no harrum at all," 
 said Phil, languidly earthing up a cabbage ; “ they'd 
 come frindly, the leaders tells me, an' forgive all that's 
 to be paid to thim Jews of English for the bits of land 
 farmers has bought — the land they lives out of, the 
 craythurs." 
 
 “ They wouldn't be lookin' for it thimselves ? " said 
 Connor dubiously. " For the land, Phil? " 
 
 “ With all France to plant spuds in, is it likely ? " said 
 Phil ; "an' other sphots, quare -named that I cannot 
 twisht me tongue round. Don't be argufyin', Connor, 
 but sthep away an' brin' up two pints of porther. Stasy 
 is ironin' within. We'd be gran' min entirely if they 
 jined us here," said Phil, " I'd say, Con." 
 
 " Ye think they wouldn't raise the price of yallow 
 male," observed Connor. “ We have a sight of hins." 
 
 Phil's pig grunted as if in response. It was doing its 
 bit by rapidly getting fat enough to be killed in a stifling 
 little stye some four feet high, which was only cleaned 
 out when there was no room for the pig to get into it. 
 
 “ Keep 'em cosy," was Anastasia's advice. 
 
 There was no town between the Barracks and the 
 wide country, only a few rows of villas bordering the 
 main road ; one could look across a stretch of bog 
 to a line of hills jutting hazily into the opal dusk, and 
 beyond them the Galtee mountains, indigo blue. On his 
 right Phil could see the silver wealth of the Boggan 
 river and beyond it again a range of hills. The evening 
 was very still, the soldiers were out doing some special 
 work on the drill ground and only occasional voices 
 came from the Barracks. 
 
 “ Let ye mould up thim cabbages, Phil Phelan, ye 
 wasther ! " shrilled a strident voice, " or ye'll get no 
 egg for ye'r supper." 
 
 “ Stasy," said Phil unhappily. “ Here she is." 
 
 Phil was a mild, slouching man with a weak mouth 
 and clever eyes, Anastasia a thin viperish woman of 
 over fifty, wrinkled and grey-haired, but as active as a 
 girl of fifteen. 
 
PHIL PHELAN'S PHANTASY 
 
 275 
 
 Connor melted away into the shadow of the- arch of 
 green. Phil had not been without thought when he 
 made the shelter. 
 
 “ I was but passin' the time of day to a neighbour/' 
 said Phil with dignity, “an’ I have two rows done, 
 Stasy." To which Anastasia replied that if four more 
 were not done before dark she'd know the reason why. 
 Here she retired, flourishing her iron. 
 
 “The wimmin, anyways, is managed right by the 
 Germins , 9 said Phil, taking up his spade. “ Now what 
 I howd, Con, is that they'd come frindly, disarrum the 
 sojers, maybe, employ the polis thimsilves, an' give us 
 Home Rule. The volunteers an' thimsilves 'd be great 
 at once." 
 
 “ Ye wouldn't credit thin what they did to the 
 craythursin Belgium ? "said Connor ; “ shootin' priests 
 an easy-goin' min the same as ourselves, without a 
 thrial." 
 
 “ There do be newspaper fellys out there paid speshul 
 to make up all that," said Phil. “I knows. The 
 bloodier they writes the more they gets. The volun- 
 teers'll be out soon, Connor, an' I'll try to get up to the 
 race-course to see thim drill. Let ye get the porther 
 anyways, Con, an' I'll convince ye the Germins is the 
 min for Ireland whin ye bring it." 
 
 Connor slouched away. A curious mist crept up 
 silver white from the low-lying lands and the river ; it 
 eddied to the little garden and the evening was strangely 
 silent. 
 
 An occasional motor honked on the main road or a 
 cart rattled ; the Barracks seemed to have gone to sleep. 
 The pig grunted his monologue in his stye and Phil 
 attacked the cabbages ; his long narrow spade raised the 
 red earth to the roots and patted it skilfully against 
 them. Phil was proud of his cabbages. 
 
 Autumn dusk fell quickly, the mist crept nearer and 
 Phil grew hot. 
 
 He looked cautiously at the half-open door of his 
 house, then longingly down the narrow road which 
 
276 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 Connor would return by, and he sat down on the wooden 
 seat — lighting his pipe. The fog dulled sound — the 
 shriek of the trains could scarcely be heard, and the 
 evening grew darker. 
 
 “ I say they would come frindly,” said Phil. 
 “ An' ” A motor hooted persistently. 
 
 Then he heard tramp, tramp, tramp, the rhythm of 
 marching feet. Right, left, right, left, right, left. 
 
 “The volunteers are goin' out,” said Phil. “ I've 
 one row left to be earthed. If Con 'ud bring the port her 
 . . . God in Hivin — this night ! ” 
 
 For the tramp ceased and out of the mist loomed two 
 huge Prussian officers, splendidly set up, steel helmeted, 
 their feet crushing Phils cabbages. 
 
 “ Have a care of the plants, yer honours,” said Phil, 
 rising. “An' good evenin' to you kindly.” 
 
 The taller man took out a revolver and put it to 
 Phil's head. “ Keep quiet,” he said coldly, “schwein- 
 hund, or I fire.” 
 
 “I am frindly to ye Germins,” said Phil hastily, 
 “ believin' ye'll come frindly yerselves.” 
 
 “ Then show us a back way into the Barracks,” said 
 the man sharply. “ Schnell ! — idiot. We do not wish 
 to kill the sentry — he might squeal.” 
 
 “It is Michael O'Brien, me own cousin,” said Phil 
 indignantly. “ A dacent bye, captain. He is on sentry- 
 go this evenin'.” 
 
 “ Cannot the creature speak English, Herr Haupt- 
 man ? ” said the second man. 
 
 “ It seems not, Buelow. It is their wretched 
 ignorance.” 
 
 “ How did ye creep here unbeknownt ? ” asked Phil, 
 looking askance at the levelled pistol. 
 
 “ We seized the train after we had landed and came 
 up here. We'll take the banks and all the money, but 
 we must secure this miserable regiment ; my men are 
 outside and more follow.” 
 
 “ An' the river,” said Phil ; “ there is a gunboat below 
 there.” 
 
PHIL PHELAN'S PHANTASY 
 
 277 
 
 " Two of our U-boats come to blow her up, idiot. 
 Hark ! " said the captain. " We want to get the 
 money." 
 
 Phil remembered that he had one hundred pounds on 
 deposit receipt at the bank. He shivered. 
 
 " It's not dacent work, Captain, to be robbin' the 
 poor," he began. 
 
 He stared as a wave of men in grey-green poured into 
 the haggard. The Prussian jabbed him with the revolver. 
 
 " An' have a care of that gun. Ye'r finger isn't too 
 stheady," groaned Phil. " Oh, cripes ! Stasy ! " 
 
 " Be off my cabbages ! " shrilled Anastasia. " Young 
 man, git off thim plants, I tell ye." 
 
 “ Woman," barked the Prussian captain, " silence ! " 
 
 " I don't know how ye got in, but the polis'll have ye 
 to the lock-up," said Anastasia. " Ye scheemin' 
 foreigners ! Two rows ye have thramped down, ye 
 an' the sojers." 
 
 Anastasia's attitude was so fierce that the captain 
 moved to the path. 
 
 “ Muzzle the creature or shoot her," he said sharply. 
 "Silence, woman! We Germans know how to treat 
 hags such as you." 
 
 “ If ye're that bitter, someone jilted ye," said Anna. 
 " Phil, run for the polis ! " 
 
 A sea of men in grey-green came over the little fence 
 — the cabbages were trampled down for ever and the 
 pig grunted in terror. Phil stood transfixed. 
 
 "I am parched," the big Prussian said. " Hag, 
 fetch what drink you have, and after, Vilhelm, kill the 
 pig and roast it." 
 
 Anastasia's shriek reft the air. 
 
 "An' her to ate a bag of pollard," she said. " Will 
 ye pay for her, ye thievin' threspassers ? Ye an' yer 
 Kayzar ! " 
 
 A hand was clapped over Anastasia's mouth — she 
 struggled free to pull up a broken cabbage and hit the 
 mighty Prussian on the face ; covered with earth, he 
 reeled back, cursing in German. 
 
IRISH STEW 
 
 278 
 
 “ You have struck a German officer,” he breathed, 
 pulling out his sword. “ I ” 
 
 He turned with outraged dignity. “ Kill her when 
 she has prepared her own pig/' he said, “ and got us our 
 drink.” 
 
 “ There is a bottle of whisky in the press,” whispered 
 Phil. “ Aisy, Stasy. It's war, an' they wants the 
 town — they're dacent.” 
 
 Anastasia, struggling wildly, was led away ; the big 
 Prussian turned to Phil. 
 
 “ You know a way,” he said, “ schweinhund.” 
 
 “ Phil,” cried Stasy. “ The polis ! ” 
 
 Phil looked round : he knew the regiment was out. 
 His friendliness for Germans was wavering. 
 
 “ Ye could climb the wall there,” he said, “ into the 
 Fives Court — I have a ladder — an' surprise thim all, 
 Captain.” 
 
 “ Gnadige Herr,” snorted the Prussian. 
 
 “ Nady Hare,” said Phil humbly. “ In there, Nady 
 Hare, but yell take thim aisy. Won't ye do no 
 harrum to thim ? ” 
 
 “We will take them quickly,” said the big man; 
 “ then the artillery and the banks. Also take the 
 provisions — kill the pig when we leave, Vilhelm — and 
 the woman after, if she speaks. What is that ? You 
 want another man because her hands will be free, as 
 she is cooking ? Zo, we cannot spare one — keep her 
 quiet.” 
 
 “ She is me sisther, Cap — Nady Robbit,” said Phil, 
 “an' a bit near in her timper, but — ye wouldn't do her 
 a mischief.” 
 
 “Speak English,” said the Captain. “Hummel, 
 what is a woman ! ” 
 
 Phil thought of peace and was silent. But he thought 
 then of Anastasia's money also in the bank, and he 
 wavered mentally. 
 
 The officers moved away to drink Phil's whisky, 
 Anastasia, her eyes blazing, pouring it out. 
 
 Then Phil heard a noise and his name breathed. Two 
 
PHIL PHELAN'S PHANTASY 
 
 279 
 
 rows of cabbages still stood erect and green, and crouched 
 down, lying prone, a bottle of porter in each hand, he 
 saw his friend Con Naylor. 
 
 “The G^rmins," breathed Con; “they've come, 
 Phil Phelan." 
 
 “ Robin' vilyins ! " whispered Phil. “ Don't show 
 thim the porther, Con — shlip away — there is one a robbit 
 Captain." 
 
 “ If there was a robbit hole I'd be down it," whispered 
 Con. 
 
 “ Shlip away — git Sergint Casey and Constable 
 Dillon; tell the Artillery barracks. I'll delay thim 
 inside. Hurry on." 
 
 “ I thought you loved thim," murmured Con. 
 
 “An' they goin' to kill the pig an' Anastasia, an' 
 the pig near fat ! Hurry on, Con ; slip on through 
 Tatty’s an' tell no one. A bawl'd do us. S-h-h-h." 
 
 “ The ladder ! " said the Prussian captain, coming 
 back. “ Get it, fool." 
 
 “Yes, yer honour — yer robbit," said Phil. “Two 
 rungs is wake, but if ye sthep aisy it may howld ye." 
 
 He heard something about “miserable, untidy Irish." 
 
 “ When we use your country we will teach you order 
 — if we keep any alive. Now — the thing is rotten. . . . 
 go first, Buelow." 
 
 The ladder was put against the wall and the younger 
 officer mounted. Phil, with the muzzle of the revolver 
 jabbed against the middle of his spine, was sent next, 
 but not before he protested. 
 
 Then one by one the helmeted men in their grey-green 
 uniforms swarmed up. 
 
 Phil thought of the banks and his money, and of 
 Matt, the pig. He set his wits to work. 
 
 “ The place is silent," said the big Prussian. 
 
 “ The officers'll all be in the mess dhrinkin', Cap — 
 Nady Robbit. A quare name entirely," muttered Phil. 
 “ Aisy ! " 
 
 Grey-green shadows, they tiptoed through the haze. 
 The mess-room door was open, the men crouched and 
 
28 o 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 rushed in, but the ante-room was empty, the dining- 
 room table laid ; no one there. 
 
 “The servants'll be in the kitchen," whispered Phil, 
 hoping for help. 
 
 “ We want not servants. Karl, pack up the silver ; 
 watch the kitchen door. Where now, idiot ? Mak- 
 schell." 
 
 The big man turned on Phil. 
 
 “ Bein' frindly to Germans, I'm doin' me besht," said 
 Phil, not liking the expression in the Prussian's eye. 
 “ Didn't I spake up in ye'r favour only to Con Naylor 
 this very day ? Dacint min, says I, that'll thrate us 
 dacent, says I, an' lave us our bits of land, says I, 
 Nady Robbit, says I. If ye does me well I could befrind 
 ye. Captain." 
 
 “ If you do not stop your unintelligent gabble and 
 lead us right you can speak next to the devil," said the 
 officer crisply. 
 
 “ The divil such manners ! " murmured Phil. “ If 
 they are not atin', thin the regiment'll be in the little 
 yard dhrillin', Gineral, for sure." 
 
 Phil led the way. He thought it strange that no one 
 was about. 
 
 “ They are all gone a-hide, "he whispered. “ Afeered." 
 
 “We have men at either gate; they cannot slip 
 away," said the Prussian uneasily. “ Schnell — fool." 
 
 Phil tiptoed through the square — the rhythmical 
 tramping sounding behind him. He gambled for time, 
 afraid now. 
 
 The mist closed softly on the bleak barracks, veiling 
 their hideousness. 
 
 “ Now," said Phil. “ Here." 
 
 But, as Phil knew it would be, the square was empty. 
 The silence deepened. 
 
 “ You are selling us — fooling us. Kill him ! " said the 
 big man. “ Hans ! use the bayonet ; let someone choke 
 him so he screams not." 
 
 He called out some words in German. 
 
 A brutal-looking soldier advanced on Phil. 
 
PHIL PHELAN'S PHANTASY 
 
 281 
 
 " God above, ye wouldn't kill me ! " shrieked Phil. 
 Gineral — Nady Robbit. For God's sake — ye wouldn't 
 do it ! " 
 
 The naked steel gleamed softly in the mist. A 
 second man advanced with hands ready for Phil's 
 throat. 
 
 “ Ye wouldn't ! It's a joke ! Oh, me God ! " Phil 
 staggered back. . . . Death. . . . Death which would 
 come with a hot sear and a cruel choke. . . . Death 
 from those he had spoken for. . . . 
 
 “ An' not without the priest. . . . Let one of thim 
 run for Father Dan Henessy, Gineral." Phil sank to 
 his knees, and far off he thought he heard a chuckle 
 which sounded like Con's. 
 
 “ Gineral . . . Oh, ye divils ! . . . O God, help me, 
 Phil Phelan, that has sins on his sowl ! " 
 
 “ Show us then, speedily. One more chance ; these 
 men are hiding — show us." 
 
 Phil got up, reeling dizzily. 
 
 “ Ye were sphared a great sin if it wasn't funnin' ye 
 were," he quavered. “ Show ye? They are all gone 
 a-hide, I tell ye." 
 
 A sudden thought struck him — the Barrack coal- 
 cellar was at the far end of the big square, a grating 
 opening to one of the back streets. It had a strong 
 door. If . . . if . . . 
 
 Phil gulped. 
 
 "Nady Gineral Robbit, "he said, “ Iknows — theyhave 
 all run, an' it is into the cellar. There is two cellars, an' 
 surely they'll be in the far one pullin' the gratin' out to 
 get out to the town. Whisht, go aisy ! " 
 
 “ Put that bayonet through him if he lies," said the 
 captain. “ Ready, Hans. Now lead on. God, what a 
 country ! " 
 
 Hans grunted and pricked Phil joyously. 
 
 Phil hurried now. He came to the cellar door. A 
 shovel lay outside it and the padlock was unfastened. 
 
 The big Prussian swung round, giving his revolver 
 tojthe private soldier. 
 
282 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 “ Shoot him if he stirs,” he said, “ and we shall slowly 
 hang you to that post there if we are again fooled,” he 
 said to Phil. 
 
 Sweat beaded on Phils brow — the agony of death was 
 with him. Kindly soldiers of King George, dictatorial 
 “ polis ” — he had reviled them, but they would not 
 have hanged him. He put his hands to his throat. 
 Silently the soldiers in grey-green disappeared. He 
 looked at Hans. 
 
 " Tin shillins if ye let me off,” he whispered. 
 
 The big stolid German spat expressively. 
 
 A whisper was wafted to Phil. He had heard a 
 laugh. He saw Con's face peering over the wall. 
 
 “ Ye are not so great with ye'r frinds,” whispered 
 Con. “ Their boats is cot below.” 
 
 Phil drew a deep breath. Hans turned, hearing the 
 whisper, and Phil pounced on the heavy shovel. It 
 crashed on Hans' head, that worthy dropping without a 
 groan, and it was but a moment's work to lock the door; 
 then Phil stood back. 
 
 " The polis is cornin' — that was a thrue stroke,” said 
 Con, getting over the wall. “ Is he dead, Phil dear ? ” 
 
 “ If he has a head an' not a fireproof safe he shud be,” 
 said Phil. 
 
 Crash — roar. A scramble of feet, the stout door 
 bending, and the German officer's voice : 
 
 “ None are here, Hans. Let us out. Let us out, I 
 say ! ” 
 
 “ Aisy,”said Phil ; “ aisy let ye — Nady Hare Robbit.” 
 
 The German raved — in fluent English he warned Phil 
 .... If they were not let out Phil should die in many 
 ways — they would tear him to pieces — they would beat 
 him to bits. 
 
 “ Well, for frindly ones,” commented Con, “ the door 
 will go, Phil. Bang ! . . . D'ye hear the gunboat ? 
 Their boat is gone.” 
 
 “ And Hans ! ” yelled the Captain. “ Hans. 
 Schnell.” 
 
 “ Faix ; Hans is kilt,” said Phil ; “ the breath might be 
 
PHIL PHELAN'S PHANTASY 283 
 
 in him but no more, Captain, an' ye’ll be in the lock-up 
 yerself soon, whin the Sargint comes.” 
 
 A muffled roar answered — then the Prussian cajoled. 
 He offered gold, a place in the War Lord’s army to 
 his friend. 
 
 "The divil much frin’ship I seen in ye! ” said Phil, 
 “an’ ye threatenin' me, back there. Funnin’, were 
 ye ? Quare fun to a dacent bye.” 
 
 When the town was theirs Phil heard how he, the 
 traitor, was to suffer. He would be dragged through it 
 by the feet . His old wife would be hanged . . . they . . . 
 
 Con melted away delicately. 
 
 The door bent. And as it did, Hans stirred. Next 
 moment he was up, his fingers at Phil’s throat ; the two 
 swayed, struggling, and the door was giving. Phil 
 fought, but he was small. He struggled for clean 
 breath and was going down when a long shriek rent the 
 air. It must be Stasy’s death-cry. Another and 
 another. He heard feet marching — the police were 
 coming. A longer shriek, and he went to his knees just 
 as the door gave and the grey-green figures showed. 
 Blows fell on him. It was death. 
 
 “ I’ll tache ye to shleep ! ” roared Anastasia. “ The 
 pig out, an’ all the gran’ cabbages gone ate an thramped. 
 Ye wasthrel, ye — takin’ yer aise.” The pig screamed 
 again as he tried to dodge a deftly-flung stone. 
 
 The mist still clung to the hollows, and the silence of 
 the dull evening was broken by the tramp, tramp of 
 marching feet, the distant snort of trains. 
 
 “ Ye’re not dead, Stasy ? ” murmured Phil, a little 
 regretfully. “An’ the Germins — God save us, they 
 are goin’ to the lock-up.” 
 
 He rose and blinked. There were no Germans, no 
 bestial faces, no hands at his throat. 
 
 ‘ 4 God be praised ! It was a vision, ” he said reverently. 
 
 Anastasia very bitterly opined that it was porter. 
 
 “ It was not, an’ Con sneakin’ an’ not returnin’,” 
 said Phil with dignity. “ But a vision, Stasy, like the 
 
284 
 
 IRISH STEW 
 
 blessed saints were acclimatised to formerly. • . . 
 Haven't I the feel of the fingers on me windpipe still ? ” 
 
 “ Ye have the feel of the rail where ye'r head was 
 lying," said Stasy. “ All the gran' cabbage gone, ye 
 titmouse, Phil ! " 
 
 “ It is dormice that do be shleepin', Stasy Phelan," 
 said Con, coming up the path. He had put down the 
 porter pots under a bush. Phil drew another breath. 
 He looked at the lowlands silver-wisped in mist, at the 
 grey, quiet town, and he heard the regiment coming back 
 and the crisp words of command in the barracks. 
 “ Shun ! . . . Dis-miss ! " 
 
 “ Save us, to think I liked thim Germins ! " he said 
 bitterly. “ Traitorous dogs ! " 
 
 His effort to sit down again was marred by Stasy, 
 who hit him soundly on the ear. Let him tidy the 
 garden now. 
 
 Phil fell to work, but life was sweet in him. He 
 smoothed and earthed up with surreptitious rests" for 
 sips of porter, and he confided his vision to Con, who 
 listened in awed silence. 
 
 “ Maybe it was a vision," said Con. “ An' the papers 
 talk the thruth, Phil." 
 
 “ Maybe," said Phil. 
 
 Phil Phelan did not live on at Bally Boggan. He 
 smoked all that evening, deaf to Anastasia's outcries 
 as to extravagance, and next day he took train to Cara 
 and enlisted. 
 
 Age Phil waved to one side. 
 
 No one knew where he was bom, he said, an' he 
 was young enough to do for a few in yelly green before 
 he died. “ Do for 'em with the bay'net, though I'd 
 prefer to choke thim," ruminated Phil, looking at his 
 hands. 
 
 Phil sits again on the wooden seat, now proud of a 
 D.C.M., but when the mists creep round Bally Boggan 
 he shivers. 
 
 “That vision I tuk was a quare thing," he says to 
 Stasy. “ Howd yer whisht with yer porther I If I 
 
PHIL PHELAN'S PHANTASY 
 
 285 
 
 tuk ye out there ye'd know it wus the reality. Didn't 
 I kill the very same big Proosian I seen here, that would 
 surely have come over if I hadn't, an' taken the town ? " 
 “ Ye wouldn't take me word for furriners," returns 
 Stasy ill-humouredly. 
 
 THE END 
 
 PRINTED BY THE ANCHOR PRESS, LTD, TLPTREE, ESSEX, ENGLAND. 
 

 
 
 
 
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