The cornet is of all instruments in an ordinary band the one which produces the most penetrating sounds. While young Kerrigan was practising a new tune on it all the inhabitants of the town of Bally-moy were able to hear him. He was aware of this and sorry for it. He did not, indeed, pity his fellow-citizens. He would not have understood a complaint made by a nervous person who found himself tortured by a long series of efforts to get a note in the middle of a tune right. It would have struck him as mere affectation if anyone had objected to hearing the same tune with the same gasping wheeze in the middle of it played over a hundred or a hundred and fifty times in one evening. Young Kerrigan’s dislike of the necessary publicity of his practising was similar to that which other artists feel when members of the public break in and see their work in an incomplete condition. He liked his music to be appreciated. He felt that acknowledgment of the stages by which it came to its ultimate perfection was likely to diminish its glory. But he had no place in which he could practise except the back yard of his father’s house, and that, unfortunately, was in the very middle of the town.

In order to get out of his difficulty young Kerrigan adopted the plan of learning new tunes only in autumn and winter, when strong gales were blowing. On a calm summer evening every note of the cornet, whether right or wrong, was heard. Even the sounds which were not quite notes but only painful grunts penetrated open windows and doors. But when a storm was raging most of the notes were blown away, and only occasionally, when there happened to be a lull, did anybody except young Kerrigan himself hear anything. The plan worked out very satisfactorily. Amid the rush and clatter of a tempest people took no notice of such stray wailings of the cornet as reached their ears. But, like many excellent plans, this one was liable to break down in emergencies. It broke down badly when Dr. O’Grady insisted that the band should learn “Rule Britannia” in the middle of August.

Young Kerrigan readily got a grip on the tune. He could whistle it and hum it quite correctly after he had heard it six or seven times. But to reproduce it on the cornet required practise, and the weather was remarkably calm and fine. Kerrigan, in spite of his dislike of being heard, was obliged to devote the evening to it after the doctor left him. Next morning he went at it again, beginning at about eleven o’clock. He got on very well up to the point at which the words declare that “Britons never, never, never shall be slaves.” The notes which went to the “nevers” were particularly troublesome. He tried them slowly, one by one, leaving a short interval between them. He tried them fast, running them into each other. He tried beginning the tune again after each mistake, in hope of getting over his difficulty, as a bicyclist sometimes gets up a hill, by running. He was a man of patient disposition, and he was still working hard at one o’clock.

Mr. Thaddeus Gallagher spent the morning transcribing shorthand notes in his office. There had been a singularly interesting meeting of the County Council the day before in the neighbouring town of Dunbeg. Gallagher had written down every word of an acrimonious debate. He wanted to publish a verbatim report of it. As a rule noise of any kind affected him very little, and at first he took no notice whatever of young Kerrigan’s cornet. But the continual repetition of the tune gradually beat it into his brain. He found his pencil moving across the paper in a series of short staccato bounds every time young Kerrigan got to “Never, never, never.” He became by degrees vaguely uneasy. The tune was one which he had certainly heard before. He could not remember where he had heard it. He could not remember what it was. But he became more and more sure that it was connected in his mind with some unpleasant associations. At last he found it impossible to go on with his work. The most passionate invective of the most furious of the County Councillors failed to move him to any interest. He glanced at his watch. It was just one o’clock. The meeting of the Reception Committee was to take place at half-past one. Gallagher felt that he had just time to investigate thoroughly the disagreeable tune. He got up and left his office.

Constable Moriarty was standing at the door of the barrack listening to young Kerrigan. Being himself a musician, he appreciated the difficulty of playing “Rule Britannia” on a cornet, and enjoyed hearing young Kerrigan’s efforts. When he saw Gallagher come out of his office he was greatly pleased, and showed his feeling by grinning broadly. Gallagher saw the grin, and his suspicion that the tune was an offensive one deepened at once. He crossed the road.

“What’s that,” he said, “that young Kerrigan’s playing?”

“It’s a new tune,” said Moriarty, “and it’s hoped that the town band will learn it.”

“Where did he get it?”

“I’m after hearing,” said Moriarty, “that it was the doctor taught it to him. But I don’t know is that true. You can’t believe the half of what you hear in this town.”

“What tune is it?”

“I don’t know that I could put a name to it this minute; but there’s no need for you to be uneasy, Mr. Gallagher. It’s not what you think it is.”

“I’m not thinking about it at all,” said Gallagher, very untruthfully.

“I’m glad of that,” said Moriarty. “I was afraid from the look of you as you came out of the office that you might be thinking it was ‘God Save the King.’ But it’s not.”

“I was thinking no such thing, for young Kerrigan knows and the doctor knows, and you know yourself, Constable Moriarty, that the people of this town is all good Nationalists, and that if the tune you’re after naming was to be played in the streets——”

“It’s not it, anyway,” said Moriarty, “so you may make your mind easy.”

Gallagher’s mind was very far from being easy, but he saw that he was not likely to get any more information out of Constable Moriarty. He crossed the road and entered the hotel. Doyle was in the commercial room trying to induce Mary Ellen to sweep the floor. It was in the commercial room that the meeting of the Committee was to be held that afternoon. Doyle wanted some, if not all, of the dirt removed from the floor beforehand.

“What tune’s that young Kerrigan’s playing?” said Gallagher.

“I don’t know,” said Doyle. “I’ve more to do than to be listening to tunes. Mary Ellen, can you not see that there’s three corks out of porter bottles underneath the table? Will you take them out of it now, like a good girl?”

“I’m not satisfied in my mind about that tune,” said Gallagher.

“What harm is there in it?”

“I don’t know yet is there any harm, but I don’t like it, and I’d be glad if I knew what tune it is. I have it in my mind that it’s a tune that ought not to be played.”

“Mary Ellen,” said Doyle, “what tune is it that young Kerrigan’s playing?”

“How would I know?” said Mary Ellen.

“Well, put down that sweeping brush,” said Doyle. “For all the good you’re doing with it you might as well never have taken it up. I never seen such a girl. Put it down now and run across to Constable Moriarty, who’s standing at the door of the barrack——”

“I’d be ashamed,” said Mary Ellen, “so I would.”

“If you’re not ashamed of the state this room’s in,” said Doyle, “it would take more than Moriarty to shame you. Run along now, when you’re bid, and ask him what tune it is that Kerrigan’s playing.”

Mary Ellen, who hoped that the interruption might put an end to the sweeping once for all, left the room.

“If there’s one in the town that knows the tune,” said Doyle, “it’ll be Moriarty. I’d say myself that he must know pretty near every tune there is in the world.”

“He might tell her,” said Gallagher, “or he might not. I was talking to him this minute and he wouldn’t tell me.”

“He’ll tell Mary Ellen,” said Doyle. “He’s always after that girl, and it’s my belief he’ll tell her anything that she’d ask him. There’s some that’s took that way. Foolishness I call it.”

“It’s the way he wouldn’t tell me when I asked him,” said Gallagher, “that and the grin on his face when he saw me that has me sure that there’s some insult intended to the people of this town with that tune. It’s what I wouldn’t stand, and the doctor and the rest of them may make their minds up to it. It’s what I won’t stand is to have tunes played here that is against the political convictions of the people.”

“Who’d do the like?” said Doyle soothingly.

“What I say is this,” said Gallagher, “if there’s no reason to be ashamed of the tune, let them say out boldly what tune it is. I have it in the back of my mind that I’ve heard that tune before now, and it’s not the kind of tune that decent men would be listening to.”

“Have sense, can’t you, Thady. There’s nobody wanting to annoy you.”

“There may not be,” said Gallagher, “but there’s more than one in this town that’s the enemies of the Irish people and would be glad to see the cup of freedom dashed from the lips of the men that have spent their lives in the struggle for Home Rule and that has it now as good as got.”

“Have sense,” said Doyle, but he spoke without real energy or much purpose. He had little hope that Gallagher, once embarked on a peroration, would stop until he had used up all the words at his command. He was quite right in his reading of his friend’s character. Gallagher went on:

“It isn’t the declared enemies of the people that we’d be afraid of,” he said. “We’ll meet them in the open field as we’ve always met them and they’ll fly before the spectacle of a united people as they’ve always fled, the tyrants of other days, the blood-sucking landlords——”

“God help the poor Major,” said Doyle.

“But the traitors within the camp,” said Gallagher, “the men that is occupying positions in the gift of the people of Ireland, that’s taking our pay, and at the same time plotting contrivances for the heaping of insults on the dearest convictions of our hearts——”

Mary Ellen entered the room while Gallagher was speaking. Bewildered by the splendour of his eloquence she stopped short just inside the door and gazed at him with her mouth open. Doyle took advantage of a slight hesitation in Gallagher’s oration to speak to her.

“What tune is it, Mary Ellen?” he said.

“I couldn’t rightly say,” said Mary Ellen.

“Didn’t I tell you,” said Gallagher, “that there was underhand work going on?”

“What tune did Moriarty say it was?” said Doyle.

“He said it was a tune the doctor is after teaching young Kerrigan,” said Mary Ellen.

“What did I tell you?” said Gallagher. “Maybe you’ll believe me now.”

“The best thing for you to do, Thady.” said Doyle, “if you’re dead set on finding out about that tune is to go and ask young Kerrigan what it is. The boy’s a decent boy, and he’ll tell you if you speak civil to him.”

“I’ll do that same,” said Gallagher, “and if I discover——”

“You’d better be quick about it then,” said Doyle, “for the committee is to meet at half after one and I wouldn’t like you’d miss the proceedings.”

“Come along with me,” said Gallagher. “I wish you to hear the way I mean to talk to young Kerrigan.”

Doyle did not want to listen to Gallagher browbeating young Kerrigan, but he realised that he would save time and a long argument if he went at once. He made a last appeal to Mary Ellen to collect at least the corks which were on the floor. Then he went out with Gallagher. In the porch of the hotel they met Major Kent who was a scrupulously punctual man, on his way to the committee meeting.

“You’re a bit early, Major,” said Doyle. “But if you’ll step into the commercial room you won’t have long to wait. Thady and I have to cross the street on a matter of business but we’ll be back in less than five minutes. The doctor might be here any time and I see Father McCormack coming along from the presbytery.”

Doyle was unduly optimistic. He was not back in five minutes. He did not, indeed, get back for nearly half an hour.

Kerrigan, very red in the face, and rather exhausted, was still blowing vigorously into his cornet when Gallagher and Doyle entered the back-yard. Gallagher went straight to business without wasting any time on preliminary politeness.

“Will you stop that blasted noise,” he said.

Kerrigan took the cornet from his lips and gazed at Gallagher in extreme surprise.

“Speak civil to the boy,” said Doyle.

“What tune is that?” said Gallagher.

“What Mr. Gallagher’s meaning to say,” said Doyle, “is that party tunes is unsuitable to this locality where the people has always lived in peace and harmony, Protestant and Catholic together, and respected one another. That’s what Mr. Gallagher means, and if Constable Moriarty didn’t annoy him it’s what he’d say.”

“It’s a tune the doctor taught me,” said young Kerrigan, “and it’s a fine tune, so it is.”

“What’s the name of it?” said Gallagher.

“That,” said young Kerrigan, “is what I was meaning to ask the doctor next time he happened to be passing but if you’re in a hurry to know, Mr. Gallagher, you can ask him yourself. It’s likely you’ll be seeing him before I do.”

Young Kerrigan’s words were perfectly civil; but there was a look in his eyes which Gallagher did not like and the tone in which he spoke suggested that he meant to be impudent.

“I’ll take no back talk from you,” said Gallagher. “What tune is it?”

“I don’t know what tune it is,” said Kerrigan.

“You’re a liar,” said Gallagher. “You know well what tune it is.”

“Speak civil now, Thady,” said Doyle, “speak civil to the boy.”

“I may be a liar,” said Kerrigan, “but it’s the truth I told you this minute. And liar or no liar it’s the truth I’ll speak now, when I tell you that I’m not near as damned a liar as yourself, Mr. Gallagher. So there’s for you. What do you mean by telling the American gentleman that I was married to Mary Ellen and her with twins? Was that a lie now or was it not? Twins! Cock the like of that one up with twins! If I’m a liar I’d tell more sensible lies than that.”

“Whisht, now, whisht,” said Doyle. “Sure if Mr. Gallagher said that, isn’t the girl a cousin of his own, and hadn’t he the best right to say it?”

“Come along out of this,” said Gallagher.

“The sooner you’re gone the better I’ll be pleased,” said Kerrigan.

“And let me tell you this, Mr. Kerrigan, junior. You’ll be sorry for this day’s work for the longest day ever you live. When the League boys hear, and they will hear, about the tune that you mean to play——”

“Come along now, Thady,” said Doyle. “Come along. You’ve enough said. We’re late for the meeting of the committee already, and we’ll be later yet if you don’t come on. You wouldn’t like to keep Father McCormack waiting on you.”

“I’ve had enough of your committee,” said Gallagher. “What’s your statue only foolishness?”

“Sure everybody knows that,” said Doyle.

“And what’s your Lord-Lieutenant only——”

“Come on, now,” said Doyle, “isn’t it for the benefit of the town we’re doing it? And it’s yourself that’s always to the fore when there’s good work to be done.”

“I will not go with you,” said Gallagher.

They had passed through Kerrigan’s shop and reached the street, when Gallagher delivered this ultimatum. Doyle hesitated. He was already late for the committee meeting. If he waited to coax Gallagher out of his bad temper he might miss the meeting altogether. He looked at the door of the hotel. Father McCormack was standing at it, waiting, perhaps, for him and Gallagher.

“Come now, Thady,” he said, “have sense. Don’t you see Father McCormack waiting for you?”

“I see him,” said Gallagher.

“And don’t you know well enough that you’ll have no luck if you go against the clergy?”

The appeal was a strong one, and had he been in any ordinary temper Gallagher would have yielded to it at once. But he was very angry indeed, far too angry to be influenced by purely religious considerations. He walked straight across the square to his office, entered it, and slammed the door behind him. Doyle followed him as far as the threshold. There he stopped and looked round. He saw Father McCormack go into the hotel. A minute later Mrs. Gregg hurried down the street and went into the hotel. Doyle sighed heavily and entered Gallagher’s office. Difficult and unpleasant as his task was likely to be, he felt that he must propitiate Thady Gallagher.

“Thady,” he said, “is there a drop of anything to drink in the place?”

“There is not,” said Gallagher, “nor I wouldn’t drink it if there was.”

This confirmed Doyle’s view of the extreme seriousness of the situation. That Gallagher should be prepared to defy the clergy was bad enough. That he should adopt an ascetic’s attitude towards drink was worse. But Doyle did not quite believe that Gallagher meant what he said. He opened a door at the far end of the office and whistled loudly. A small boy who had been cleaning type in the printing-room, appeared, rubbing his inky hands on his trousers.

“Michael Antony,” said Doyle, “will you step across to the hotel and tell Mary Ellen to give you the bottle of whisky that she’ll find in the cupboard in my own room? If you can’t find Mary Ellen—and it’s hardly ever she is to be found when she’s wanted—you can fetch the bottle yourself. If you don’t know the way to my room you ought to.”

Michael Antony, who was very well accustomed to errands of this kind, went off at once. Doyle glanced at Gallagher, who appeared to be absorbed in completing the transcription of his shorthand notes, the task at which he had been interrupted in the morning by young Kerrigan’s cornet playing. He seemed to be very busy. Doyle got up and left the room, went into the kitchen which lay beyond the printing-room, and returned with two tumblers and a jug of water. Gallagher looked up from his writing for an instant. Doyle noticed with pleasure the expression of violent anger was fading from his eyes. Michael Antony, who was a brisk and willing boy, returned with a bottle rather more than half full of whisky.

“Mary Ellen was upstairs along with a lady,” he said. “But I found the bottle.”

“If you were three years older,” said Doyle, “I’d give you a drop for your trouble. But it wouldn’t be good for you, Michael Antony, and your mother wouldn’t be pleased if she heard you were taking it.”

“I have the pledge since Christmas, anyway,” said Michael Antony.

“Thady,” said Doyle, when the boy had left the room, “it’s a drink you want to quench the rage that’s in you.”

Gallagher looked up from his papers. He did not say anything, but Doyle understood exactly what he would have said if his pride had not prevented him from speaking.

“The width of two fingers in the bottom of the tumbler,” said Doyle, “with as much water on top of that as would leave you free to say that you weren’t drinking it plain.”

The amount of water necessary to soothe Gallagher’s conscience was very small. Doyle added it from the jug in driblets of about a teaspoonful at a time. At the sound of the third splash Gallagher raised his hand. Doyle laid down the jug at once. Gallagher, without looking up from his papers, stretched out his left hand and felt about until he grasped the tumbler. He raised it to his lips and took a mouthful of whisky.

“Thady,” said Doyle, “you’ve no great liking for Mr. Ford.”

“I have not,” said Gallagher. “Isn’t he always going against me at the Petty Sessions, he and the old Major together, and treating me as if I wasn’t a magistrate the same as the best of them?”

“He does that, and it’s a crying shame, so it is, that he’s allowed to; but sure that’s the way things are in this country.”

Gallagher took another gulp of whisky and waited. Doyle said nothing more. He appeared to have nothing more to say and to have mentioned Mr. Ford’s name merely for the sake of making conversation. But Gallagher wished to develop the subject.

“What about Mr. Ford?” he said, after a long silence.

“He’s terrible down on the erection of the statue to General John Regan.”

“I’m that myself,” said Gallagher.

“Mr. Ford will be pleased when he hears it; for there’ll be no statue if you set your face against it. It’ll be then that Mr. Ford will be proud of himself. He’ll be saying all round the Country that it was him put a stop to it.”

“It will not be him that put a stop to it.”

“It’s what he’ll say, anyway,” said Doyle.

Gallagher finished his whisky in two large gulps.

“Let him,” he said.

“Have another drop,” said Doyle. “It’s doing you good.”

Gallagher pushed his tumbler across the table. Doyle replenished it.

“I’d be sorry,” said Doyle, “if Mr. Ford was to be able to say he’d got the better of you, Thady, in a matter of the kind.”

“It’ll not be me he’ll get the better of.”

“He’ll say it,” said Doyle, “and what’s more there’s them that will believe it. For they’ll say, recollecting the speech you made on Tuesday, that you were in favour of the statue, and that only for Mr. Ford you’d have had it.”

“If I thought that——” said Gallagher.

“Come along over now to the committee,” said Doyle, “and we’ll have the statue just in derision of him.”

“It isn’t the statue that I’m objecting to,” said Gallagher, “nor it isn’t the notion of a new pier. You know that, Doyle.”

“I do, of course.”

“And if it’s the wish of the people of this locality that there should be a statue——”

“It is the wish,” said Doyle. “Didn’t you say yourself that the people was unanimous about it after the meeting in the market square?”

Gallagher rose from his chair and pushed his papers back on the table. He crushed his soft hat down on the back of his head and turned to the door.

“Come on,” he said.

“I knew well,” said Doyle, “that you’d do whatever was right in the latter end. And as for the tune that was troubling you, it’s even money that the band will never play it. Father McCormack was telling me yesterday that the big drum’s broke on them on account of one of the boys giving it a kind of a slit with the point of a knife. The band will hardly ever be able to play that tune or any other tune when they haven’t got a big drum.”