Major Kent passed through the narrow hall of the hotel, went up a flight of stairs and entered the commercial room. Mary Ellen was on her hands and knees under the table which stood in the middle of the room. She was collecting the corks which had offended Doyle’s eye. There were more than three of them. She had four in her left hand, and was stretching out to grasp two more when the Major entered the room. As soon as she saw him she abandoned the pursuit of the corks, crept out from underneath the table, and stood looking at the Major. She expected him to order a drink of some sort. Most people who entered Doyle’s commercial room ordered drinks. The Major was slightly embarrassed. Mary Ellen evidently expected him to say something to her, and he did not know what to say. He did not want a drink, and he could not think of any subject of conversation likely to interest a tousled girl who had just been crawling about the floor on her hands and knees. At last he said “Good morning.” Mary Ellen gaped at him and then smiled. The Major, recollecting that it was half-past one o’clock, and therefore no longer morning, said that it was a fine evening. Mary Ellen’s smile broadened. The Major expressed a polite hope that she was quite well. He thought of shaking hands with her, and wished that he had brought a pair of gloves with him, Mary Ellen’s hands were certainly dirty and they looked hot. But he was not obliged to shake hands. Mary Ellen realised that he was a kind of man new to her, one who did not want a drink. She left the room, came back again almost at once for the broom which she had forgotten, and then left decisively, slamming the door.

The Major crossed the room and looked out of the window. He saw Doyle and Gallagher go into Kerrigan’s shop, and wondered vaguely what they wanted there. He saw Constable Moriarty telling a story, evidently of a humorous kind, to Sergeant Colgan, at the door of the police barrack. The story—he judged from Moriarty’s gestures—had something to do with Doyle and Gallagher. He wondered, without much real interest, what the story was. There was nothing else of an exciting kind to be seen from the window. The Major turned and walked to the opposite corner of the room. He stood in front of a small square mahogany table. On it was a stuffed fox in a glass case. The Major looked at it carefully from several points of view. It was a very ordinary fox, and appeared to have been stuffed a long time. Moths had eaten the fur off its back in several places, and one of its eyes, which were made of bright brown beads, was hanging from the socket by a thread. The glass of the case was exceedingly dusty. The Major, finding the fox dull and rather disgusting, left it and went over to the fireplace. Over the chimney piece hung a portrait of a very self-satisfied priest who looked as if he had just dined well. A gold Latin cross, attached to a black ribbon watch guard, rested gracefully on the large stomach of the man. The stomach struck the Major as one which was usually distended to its utmost capacity. The portrait was remarkable for that fuzziness of outline which seems to be inevitable in enlarged photographs. The frame was a very handsome one, elaborately carved and gilt.

Next the picture of the priest, unframed and attached to the wall with tacks, was a large coloured supplement, taken from an American paper. It presented a famous boxer stripped to the waist in the act of shaking hands with a dejected-looking opponent. Underneath his large picture was a list of the boxer’s most famous conflicts, with date and a note of the number of rounds which each victim had survived. Round the central picture were twelve small ones, in which the hero appeared in the act of felling other fighters, not so heroic or less muscular. The Major, who had done some boxing in his day, looked at the picture with critical interest. Then Father McCormack entered the room.

“I’m in good time after all,” he said. “I was afraid, maybe, the meeting might be over when I saw Doyle and Thady Gallagher going into the office of the Connacht Eagle after leaving Kerrigan’s shop.”

“You’re time enough,” said the Major. “If you’re not more than half-an-hour late it’s time enough for any meeting that’s held in this town.”

“That’s true too,” said Father McCormack. “As a general rule that’s true enough. But I’ve known meetings that was over and done with before the time when they ought to be beginning. That would be when there might be something to be done at them that some of the members would be objecting to if they were there. I’ve known that happen, and I shouldn’t wonder if you’d been caught that way yourself before now.”

“So far as I know,” said the Major, “nothing of the sort has happened this time. There’s no reason why it should. When anything as silly as this statue business is on hand everybody is sure to be unanimously in favour of it.”

“That’s true enough. But where’s the rest of the committee?”

“Nobody has turned up so far, except myself,” said the Major.

“Well,” said Father McCormack, “I’m as well pleased. To tell you the truth, Major, I’m glad of the chance of a few minutes quiet talk with you while we have the place to ourselves. I thought it my duty, and you’ll understand me that I’m not casting reflections on you nor yet on the doctor, and I’d be sorry to say a word against Doyle, or for the matter of that against Thady Gallagher, though it would be better if he had more sense. But anyway, I thought it my duty to acquaint the bishop with what was going on.”

“The statue idea?” said the Major. “Well, what did he say? I don’t know your bishop personally, but I suppose a man could hardly be in his position if he was altogether a fool.”

“Believe me or not as you like,” said Father Mc-Cormack, “but when I got the bishop’s answer to my letter, it turned out that he knew no more than myself about General John Regan.”

“That doesn’t surprise me in the least. I don’t believe any one knows who he was.”

“What the bishop said was that it might look queer if I was to take no part in the proceedings when the Lord-Lieutenant was coming to unveil the statue.”

“That puts you in a safe position anyhow,” said the Major. “If it turns out afterwards that there is anything fishy about the General, the bishop and the Lord-Lieutenant will have to share the blame between them.”

“What I want to know from you,” said Father Mc-Cormack, “is this: Is the Lord-Lieutenant coming or is he not?”

“I’ve only got the doctor’s word for it. He says he is.”

“The doctor’s a fine man, and there’s not many things he’d set his hand to but he’d carry them through at the latter end. But the Lord-Lieutenant! The Lord-Lieutenant is—well now, do you think it likely that the Lord-Lieutenant is coming down here?”

“It’s not the least likely,” said the Major, “but there’s nothing about this whole business that is. It isn’t likely in my opinion that there was such a person as General John Regan. It wasn’t likely beforehand that we’d subscribe to put up a statue to him. I don’t see that the Lord-Lieutenant is any more unlikely than lots of other things that have happened.”

“I’m glad to hear you say that,” said Father McCormack.

He and Major Kent were standing together at the window while they talked. Neither of them noticed that Mary Ellen had come into the room. She stood for some time near the door, hoping that either the Major or Father McCormack would look round. Neither of them did, so she sidled slowly into the room and stood beside the stuffed fox. She was a very well mannered girl, and most unwilling to interrupt an earnest, possibly an important conversation. When Father McCormack made his last remark she felt that her chance had come. It was evident from the tone in which he spoke, that he and the Major had reached a more or less satisfactory conclusion of their business, She coughed, and then tapped lightly with her knuckles on the glass case of the stuffed fox. Both Father McCormack and the Major looked round.

“There’s a lady below,” said Mary Ellen.

“A lady!” said Major Kent. “Surely to goodness we’re not going to have women on this committee. Things are bad enough without that.”

“Who is she?” said Father Mctormack.

“It’s Mrs. Gregg,” said Mary Ellen, “and it’s the doctor she’s asking for.”

“The doctor’s not here,” said Father McCormack. “Can’t you see that for yourself?”

“If it’s Mrs. Gregg,” said the Major, “you’d better show her up. You can’t leave her standing by herself in the hall till the doctor chooses to come. I wish to goodness he would come. I can’t think why he isn’t here. This is his show entirely.”

Mrs. Gregg came into the room while the Major was speaking. She looked agitated and, in spite of the fact that she had been waiting downstairs for nearly ten minutes, was almost breathless.

“Oh, Major Kent,” she said, “where’s Dr. O’Grady? Such a dreadful thing has happened. I don’t know what to do. Just fancy—Mrs. Ford has written to me——”

“There’s no use appealing to me,” said the Major. “I can’t do anything with Mrs. Ford. She and I are hardly on speaking terms. It’s not my fault—at least I don’t think it is—but you must see Mrs. Gregg, that I can’t interfere about any letter she may have written to you.”

Mrs. Gregg shook hands with Father McCormack, but her head was turned away from him as she did so. She had little hope that he could interfere effectually to settle the difficulty created by Mrs. Ford.

“Dr. O’Grady said that I——”

The Major interrupted her.

“You’d far better wait till the doctor comes,” he said. “He’ll be here in a minute.”

“But I can’t wait. Mrs. Ford is down at the dress-maker’s now. It’ll be too late if I wait. What am I to do? It will spoil the whole thing if Mrs. Ford insists——”

Dr. O’Grady came in. He was whistling cheerfully, not “Rule, Britannia,” but a harmless Irish jig.

“Hullo!” he said. “You here, Major. Good. And Father McCormack. There’s nothing like punctuality. And Mrs. Gregg. How do you do, Mrs. Gregg? Everything going on all right about Mary Ellen’s costume?”

“Oh, no, it isn’t. But I’m so glad you’ve come. Mrs. Ford——”

“Excuse me one moment, Mrs. Gregg,” said Dr. O’Grady. “I just want to ask Father McCormack one question. Listen now, Father McCormack. Do you know this tune?”

He began to whistle “Rule, Britannia.” When he was about half way through Mrs. Gregg interrupted him.

“I can’t wait,” said Mrs. Gregg. “I really can’t. Mrs. Ford is at the dressmaker’s and——”

“I’ll attend to that in one minute, Mrs. Gregg. But I must get Father McCormack’s opinion on this tune first. Doyle and Gallagher may arrive at any moment, and then I shan’t be able to go into the question. Now Father McCormack, do you recognise the tune I whistled you?”

“I’ve heard it,” said Father McCormack, “and to the best of my belief it was at a military tournament up in Dublin last year.”

“It’s ‘Rule, Britannia,’” said the Major. “And if it’s played in this town there’ll be a row.”

“There might be,” said Father McCormack, “if Thady Gallagher knows what tune it is.”

“He won’t,” said Dr. O’Grady. “You didn’t know yourself, Father McCormack, and if you didn’t I’m quite satisfied that Thady Gallagher won’t. We can count on your keeping your mouth shut, Major, I suppose. Now, Mrs. Gregg, what has Mrs. Ford been doing?”

“She says,” said Mrs. Gregg, “that Mary Ellen is to wear a plain dark grey tweed dress, and I had it all planned out——”

“White muslin,” said Dr. O’Grady, “with a silk slip. I remember.”

“It’d look perfectly sweet,” said Mrs. Gregg, “and I took her to the dressmaker yesterday evening just as you told me. I had the whole thing arranged. She was to have a blue sash.”

“I was,” said Mary Ellen, who was still standing beside the stuffed fox.

“And Mrs. Ford agreed at the time,” said Mrs. Gregg, “and now I’ve just got a note from her saying that a dark grey tweed would be much more suitable because it would be useful afterwards.”

“It seems to me,” said Dr. O’Grady, “that you haven’t managed this business quite as tactfully as I expected you would.”

“Mrs. Ford said she was going straight to the dress-maker to order the grey tweed. She’s there now, most likely.”

Mrs. Gregg’s voice had a break in it. It seemed to Dr. O’Grady that she was on the verge of tears. He turned to Mary Ellen.

“Which would you rather have, Mary Ellen, a white muslin frock, or a grey tweed, one that would be useful to you afterwards? Don’t be in a hurry to decide. Think it well over.”

Mary Ellen seemed very well inclined to take this advice. She stood quite silent with one of her fingers pressed against the corner of her mouth. She was thinking deeply.

“I can’t bear to have everything I settled upset by that woman,” said Mrs. Gregg. “I wish you’d never made me ask her to help. I wish I’d never——”

“We had to keep her in a good temper,” said Dr. O’Grady.

“You’ll not be able to do that,” said the Major, “nobody could.”

“It’s nothing but spite makes her do it,” said Mrs. Gregg. “It’s just because I’m presenting a bouquet and she’s not.”

“Hang it all!” said Dr. O’Grady. “It can’t be that. I told her distinctly that she’d be allowed to hand over the illuminated address. What more can she want?”

“It’s all spite and jealousy,” said Mrs. Gregg, “and Mary Ellen will look perfectly hideous.”

“Mary Ellen,” said Dr. O’Grady, “have you made up your mind yet which of those two dresses you’d like?”

“I have,” said Mary Ellen.

“She’d like the white muslin, of course,” said Mrs. Gregg. “No girl would choose——”

“I’d like the both of them,” said Mary Ellen.

“You shall have them,” said Dr. O’Grady. “That’s the best way I see out of the difficulty. Mrs. Gregg, you get the dress you want for her, privately, without saying a word about it. Agree with everything Mrs. Ford says, and let her order a red flannel petticoat if she likes.”

“But which will she wear?” said Mrs. Gregg, “for if she’s to be dressed in a ridiculous stuffy grey tweed——”

“She’ll wear your one, of course,” said Dr. O’Grady. “She’ll put it on and stand in the middle of the square just underneath the statue. There’ll be a large crowd of people, and it will be too late for Mrs. Ford to do anything. She can’t change the girl’s clothes in the street.”

“Don’t count on any delicacy of feeling in Mrs. Ford,” said the Major.

“And will I have the both of the dresses after?” said Mary Ellen.

“You will,” said Dr. O’Grady, “unless Mrs. Ford manages to drag the grey tweed one away from you.”

“She’ll be furious,” said Mrs. Gregg.

“She may be as furious as she likes then,” said Dr. O’Grady. “She won’t be able to show it while the Lord-Lieutenant’s wife is shaking hands with her out of the motor-car, and it won’t matter to us what she does afterwards. The only thing we have to be careful about is to keep her in a good temper——”

“You can’t do that,” said the Major.

“In as good a temper as possible between this and then. And now, Mrs. Gregg, if you’ll excuse my saying so, I think you and Mary Ellen had better trot off to the dressmaker. If any further difficulty arises refer to me at once. But I don’t see how anything can. All you’ve got to do is to let Mrs. Ford have her own way, and give your orders when she’s gone home.”

Mrs. Gregg did not seem entirely satisfied with this settlement of her difficulty, but she and Mary Ellen went off together to meet Mrs. Ford at the dressmaker’s.

“Women,” said Dr. O’Grady, “are the devil.”

He was not much better satisfied than Mrs. Gregg was with his new plan. He foresaw very serious difficulties in carrying it out.

“You’ve no one but yourself to thank for all this bother!” said the Major. “There wasn’t the slightest necessity to have Mary Ellen in the affair at all, dressed or undressed.”

Dr. O’Grady was not listening to a word the Major said. He was thinking deeply. His face lightened suddenly and he rushed across the room to the door.

“Mrs. Gregg!” he shouted. “Mrs. Gregg! Just one moment. I’ve got a capital suggestion to make, one to which there can be no possible objection from any point of view.”

He ran downstairs. Father McCormack went to the door and looked after him. Then he turned and addressed the Major.

“You might go a long journey,” he said, “before you’d meet the equal of the doctor.”

The Major received this remark in silence. He was of opinion that a man who went a long journey in order to discover a second Dr. O’Grady would be a fool.

“Tell me this,” said Father McCormack. “What relation is Mary Ellen to the General?”

“I’ve never been able to make that out for certain. Sometimes I’m told she’s his niece, and sometimes his grand-niece.”

Father McCormack looked round him cautiously and sank his voice to a whisper.

“Is she any relation at all?” he said slowly.

“No more than you are to the Sultan of Turkey.”

“I was thinking as much myself,” said Father McCormack.

Dr. O’Grady, having finished his talk with Mrs. Gregg, entered the room again.

“I’ve settled that matter satisfactorily anyhow,” he said. “It occurred to me just after Mrs. Gregg had left the room, that some sort of fancy dress for the girl would be likely to please the Lord-Lieutenant, and would be a compromise which both ladies could accept without loss of dignity. Mary Ellen is to be rigged out as a traditional Irish colleen, the sort you see on the picture postcards they sell to tourists in Dublin. Mrs. Gregg is delighted, and Mrs. Ford can’t possibly say that a crimson flannel skirt won’t be useful to her afterwards. She’ll look uncommonly well, and the Lord-Lieutenant will be all the more inclined to believe that the General was an Irishman when he sees his niece——”

“Tell me this,” said Father McCormack, “is she a niece of the General or is she not?”

“The grand-niece,” said Dr. O’Grady.

“She’s neither the one nor the other,” said the Major.

Dr. O’Grady glanced at Father McCormack. He saw by the look on the priest’s face that there was no use trying to prove Mary Ellen’s relationship. He laughed good-naturedly, and at once offered a satisfactory explanation of the position.

“Mr. Billing,” he said, “insisted on our producing some sort of relative for the dead General. He wouldn’t have given that £100 if we hadn’t. Now what I say is this——”

“You’d say anything,” said the Major.

“I’m not talking to you now, Major. I’m talking to Father McCormack, who’s a man of sense, with some knowledge of the world. The way I’m putting it to him is this: Supposing there was a job going a begging, a nice comfortable job under the Government, with no particular duties attached to it, except just to look pleasant and be generally agreeable—there are such jobs.”

“Plenty, plenty,” said Father McCormack.

“And they’re well paid,” said the Major.

“And supposing that you were asked to nominate a man for the post——” Dr. O’Grady still addressed himself only to Father McCormack. “You might be, you know. In fact you, and other people in your position often are, though there’s always supposed to be a competitive examination.”

“Nobody believes in examinations,” said the Major.

“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” said Dr. O’Grady. “Now what would you do in a case of the kind? As a matter of fact what do you do? What did you do when they were appointing a secretary to the Old-Age Pension Committee?”

“I’d look out for some decent poor fellow,” said Father McCormack. “One that might be wanting something of the kind, a man that nobody would have anything particular to say against.”

“You wouldn’t spend a lot of time arguing about whether there ought to be such a secretary or not?”

“I would not, of course,” said Father McCormack. “What would be the use? If the job’s there and a man’s wanted I’d have no business talking about the rights or wrongs of it beyond saying that the salary ought to be a bit larger.”

“Exactly,” said Dr. O’Grady. “Now that’s just what’s happened in this case. It isn’t exactly a job, under the Government, not under our Government, though it may lead on to something in Bolivia. Here’s a dead General that has to be fitted out with a niece——”

“You said a grand-niece a minute ago,” said the Major.

“The principle’s the same,” said Dr. O’Grady. “What I’m trying to get you to see is that Mary Ellen may just as well step into the position as anyone else.”

“When you put it that way,” said Father McCor-mack, “there’s no more to be said. The girl’s a decent girl, and I wouldn’t stand in the way of her bettering herself.”

“She’ll be the better by a new dress, anyway!” said the Major. “I don’t know that she’ll benefit in any other way. But that’s something.”

“I rather think,” said Dr. O’Grady, “that I hear Doyle downstairs. We’ll be able to get on with the business of the committee now, whether he has Thady with him or not. We’ve wasted time enough.”

“We’ll waste a lot more before we’ve done,” said the Major. “The whole thing’s waste of time. There’ll never be a statue in Ballymoy either to General John Regan or to anyone else.”

Dr. O’Grady had drawn a bundle of papers from his pocket and laid them on the table before him.

“Our first business, gentlemen,” he said, “is to settle about the illuminated address which Mrs. Ford has kindly consented to present to the Lord-Lieutenant.”

Thady Gallagher glared at Dr. O’Grady savagely. He did not like being interrupted in the middle of a speech.

“Order, gentlemen, order,” said Father McCor-mack, nervously tapping the table with his pencil.

“With regard to the illuminated address,” said Doyle, “I’m of opinion that the carrying out of it should be given into the hands of a Dublin firm. It’s our duty to support Irish manufacture. There’s too much money sent over to England that might be far better kept at home. You’ll agree with me there, Thady.”

“What are you going to say in the address?” said the Major.

“Oh, the usual things,” said Dr. O’Grady. “I don’t think we need go into that in detail. All addresses are pretty much the same.”

“I won’t sign my name to anything political,” said the Major.

“I’m with you there,” said Father McCormack. “It’s one of the curses of this country the way politics are dragged into business.”

“Nobody wants politics,” said Dr. O’Grady. “The address will contain nothing but nice little compliments to the Lord-Lieutenant with a word or two about the value of piers put in at the end.”

“If the matter’s left in the hands of the firm I have in mind,” said Doyle, “it’ll be done right. They’ve illuminated three-quarters of the addresses that have been presented in the country, and whether it’s a bank manager or a priest going on a new mission, or a Lord-Lieutenant that the address is for, the firm I mean will know what to put into it. They’ve had the experience, and experience is what is wanted.”

“We’ll give him names and dates,” said Dr. O’Grady, “and tell him that this is a seaport town with no proper pier. With that information any fool could draw up the text of an illuminated address. I propose that the matter be left in the hands of a subcommittee consisting of Mr. Doyle.”

“Are you all agreed on that, gentlemen?” said Father McCormack.

Thady Gallagher rose slowly to his feet.

“With regard to what Mr. Doyle has just laid before the meeting,” he said, “and speaking of the duty of supporting Irish manufacture, I’m of opinion that his words do him credit. I’m an out and out supporter of the Industrial Revival, and when I look round about me on the ruined mills that once were hives of industry, and the stream of emigration which is flowing from our shores year after year———”

“I don’t think we need spend much time discussing the bouquet,” said Dr. O’Grady. “It’ll have to be ordered from Dublin too.”

“There’s no flowers here to make a bouquet of,” said Doyle, “unless, maybe, the Major——”

“I’ve a few Sweet-Williams,” said the Major, “and a bed of mixed stocks. If you think they’d be any use to you you’re welcome to them.”

“We might do worse,” said Father McCormack.

“We’ll have to do better,” said Dr. O’Grady. “You can’t offer a lady in the position of a Lord-Lieutenant’s wife a bundle of ordinary stocks! What we have to get is lilies and roses.”

“It’s only right that we should,” said Father McCormack, “but I think the thanks of the meeting ought to be given to Major Kent for his generous offer.”

“I second that,” said Doyle. “The Major was always a good friend to anything that might be for the benefit of the town or the locality.”

“The ordering of the bouquet,” said Dr. O’Grady, “to be left to the same sub-committee which has charge of the address.”

“And it to be sent to the hotel here,” said Father McCormack, “on the morning of the ceremony, so as it will be fresh. Are you all agreed on that, gentlemen? What’s the next business, doctor?”

“The next business is the statue.”

“What’s the date of the Lord-Lieutenant’s visit?” said the Major.

“Thursday week,” said Dr. O’Grady.

“That’s ten days from to-day,” said the Major. “We may just as well go home at once as sit here talking to each other. There’s no time to get a statue.”

“We’ll do our business before we stir,” said Dr. O’Grady.

“What’s the use of saying things like that?” said the Major. “You know jolly well, O’Grady, that you can’t get a statue in ten days. The thing’s impossible. It takes a year at least to make a statue of any size. You can’t go into a shop and buy a statue, as if it were a hat or an umbrella.”

“There’s a good deal in what the Major says,” said Father McCormack. “I’m inclined to agree with him. I remember well when they were putting up the monument to Parnell in Dublin it took them years before they had it finished.”

“It’s a good job for everybody concerned,” said the Major, “that we’re brought up short. We’d simply have made ourselves publicly ridiculous if we’d gone on with this business.”

The Major, Dr. O’Grady, and Doyle, spoke when they did speak, in an easy conversational tone without rising from their chairs. But this was not Gallagher’s idea of the proper way of conducting public business. He believed that important discussions ought to be carried on with dignity. When he spoke he stood up and addressed the committee as if he were taking part in a political demonstration, using appropriate gestures to emphasize his words. The difficulty about the statue gave him a great opportunity.

“I stand here to-day,” he said, “as the representative of the people of this locality, and what I’m going to say now I’d say if the police spies of Dublin Castle was standing round me taking down the words I utter.”

Young Kerrigan had been obliged to stop practising “Rule, Britannia” on the cornet in order to eat his dinner. When he had satisfied his appetite and soothed his nerves with a pipe of tobacco he set to work at the tune again. The hour’s rest had not helped him in any way. He made exactly the same mistake as he had been making all the morning. It happened that he took up his cornet again shortly before Gallagher began his speech in which he declared himself a representative of the people of the locality. The noise of the music floated through the open window of the committee room. It had a slightly exasperating effect on Gallagher, but he went on speaking.

“What I say is this,” he said, “and it’s what I always will say. If it is the unanimous wish of the people of this locality to erect a statue to the memory of the great patriot, who is gone, then a statue ought to be erected. If the Major is right—and he may be right—in saying that it takes a year to make a statue, then we’ll take a year. We’ll take ten years if necessary. Please God the most of us has years enough before us yet to spare that many for a good work.”

Young Kerrigan continued to break down at the “never, never, never,” part of the tune. Dr. O’Grady began to fidget nervously in his chair.

“Sit down, Thady,” said Doyle. “Don’t you know that if we postpone the statue we’ll never get the Lord-Lieutenant to open it? Didn’t he say in his letter that Thursday week was the only day he could come?”

“As for the so-called Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland,” said Gallagher, waving his arm in the air, “we’ve done without him and the likes of him up to this, and we’re well able to do without him for the future.”

He brought his fist down with tremendous force as he spoke, striking the table with the pad of flesh underneath his little finger. Dr. O’Grady jumped up.

“Excuse me one moment, gentlemen,” he said. “That young fool, Kerrigan, is getting the tune wrong every time, and if I don’t stop him he’ll never get it right at all.”

He walked across to the window as he spoke and looked out. Then he turned round.

“Don’t let me interfere with your speech, Thady,” he said. “I’m listening all right, and I’m sure Father McCormack and the rest of the committee want to hear every word of it.”

But Gallagher, in spite of this encouragement, did not seem inclined to go on. He sat down and scowled ferociously at Doyle. Dr. O’Grady put his head out of the window and shouted.

“Moriarty,” he called, “Constable Moriarty, come over here for a minute and stop grinning.”

Then he drew in his head and turned round.

“Major,” he said, “you’re a magistrate. I wish to goodness you’d give orders that Moriarty isn’t to grin in that offensive way. It’s a danger to the public peace.”

“I shan’t do anything of the sort,” said the Major. “In the first place I can’t. I’ve no authority over the police. They are Gregg’s business. In the second place——”

He stopped at this point because Dr. O’Grady was not listening to him. He had stretched his head and shoulders out of the window and was talking in a very loud tone to Moriarty.

“Run over,” he said, “and tell young Kerrigan to come here to me for a minute. When you’ve done that go to bed or dig potatoes or do any other mortal thing except stand at the door of the barrack grinning.”

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

Father McCormack looked anxiously at Major Kent. The Major fixed his eyes on the stuffed fox in the glass case. It was Doyle who answered Gallagher.

“It’s no tune at all the way he’s playing it,” he said. “Didn’t you hear the doctor saying he had it wrong?”

“What tune would it be,” said Gallagher, “if so be he had it right?”

“I told you before,” said Doyle. “I told you till I’m tired telling you that I don’t know the name of it. It’s not a tune that ever I heard before.”

“I’ll find out what tune it is,” said Gallagher savagely. “I’ll drag it out of you if I have to drag the black liver of you along with it.”

“Order, gentlemen, order,” said Father McCormack. “That’s no language to be using here.”

“I was meaning no disrespect to you, Father,” said Gallagher. “I’d be the last man in Ireland to raise my hand against the clergy.”

“It’s the doctor’s liver you’ll have to drag, Thady, if you drag any liver at all,” said Doyle, “for he’s the only one that knows what the tune is.”

Moriarty appeared to have conveyed the message to young Kerrigan. Dr. O’Grady, still leaning out of the window, spoke again, this time evidently to Kerrigan.

“Don’ts you know you’re getting it wrong every time?” he said.

Young Kerrigan’s voice, faint and apologetic, reached the members of the committee through the window.

“Sure I know that well enough; but the devil’s in it that I can’t get it right.”

“Listen to me now,” said Dr. O’Grady.

He whistled the tune shrilly, beating time with his hand.

“Now, Kerrigan,” he said, “try it after me.”

He whistled it again slowly. Kerrigan followed him note by note on the cornet. After a very short hesitation he got over the difficult passage. Dr. O’Grady drew in his head and returned to the table with a sigh of relief.

“I think he has it now,” he said, “but it’s a tough job teaching that fellow anything.”

“What tune is it?” said Gallagher.

“It’s not a tune that ever you heard before,” said Dr. O’Grady.

“I’m of opinion that I did hear it,” said Gallagher. “But let you speak out now if you’re not ashamed of it, and tell me what tune it is.”

“It’s the ‘Battle March of King Malachi the Brave,’” said Dr. O’Grady, “the same that he played when he was driving the English out of Ireland. And you can’t possibly have heard it before because the manuscript of it was only dug up the other day at Tara, and this is the first time it’s ever been played publicly in the west of Ireland.”

“There now, Thady,” said Doyle, “didn’t I tell you all along that you’d nothing to do only to ask the doctor?”

“I’m of opinion that I did hear it,” said Gallagher. “You may say what you like about the Hill of Tara, but I’ve heard that tune.”

“It’s just possible,” said Dr. O’Grady, “that Mr. Billing may have whistled it while he was here. I believe the people of Bolivia are fond of it. They learned it, of course, from General John Regan. He may have heard it from his grandmother. It’s wonderful how long music survives among the people long after the regular professional musicians have forgotten all about it. But I mustn’t interrupt you any more, Thady. You were just making a speech about the Lord-Lieutenant. Perhaps you have finished what you were saying. As well as I recollect we were just settling about the statue.”

“Major Kent was after saying,” said Father McCor-mack, “that we couldn’t get a statue in the time.”

“My friend Mr. Doyle,” said Dr. O’Grady, “has a proposal to lay before the meeting. Where’s that card, Doyle, that you showed me last week?”

Doyle drew a bundle of grimy papers from his breast pocket and went through them slowly. One, which appeared to be a letter written on business paper, he laid on the table in front of him. At the bottom of the bundle he came on a large card. He handed this to Father McCormack. The printing on it was done in Curiously shaped letters, evidently artistic in intention, with a tendency towards the ecclesiastical. Round the outside of the card was a deep border of black, as if the owner of it were in mourning for a near relative.

Father McCormack looked at it dubiously.

“Read it out,” said Dr. O’Grady. “I’d like the Major to hear exactly what’s on it.”

“‘Mr. Aloysius Doyle,’” read Father McCormack.

“He’s a nephew of my own,” said Doyle.

“He would be,” said Gallagher. “If he wasn’t we’d hear nothing about him.”

He was still feeling sore about the “Battle March of King Malachi the Brave,” and was anxious to make himself disagreeable to someone. It struck him that it would be easy to annoy Doyle by suggesting that he was trying to do a good turn to his nephew at the expense of the statue fund.

“I needn’t tell you, gentlemen,” said Doyle, with great dignity, “that it’s not on account of his being a nephew of my own that I’m recommending him to the notice of this committee. If he was fifty times my nephew I wouldn’t mention his name without I was sure that he was as good a man as any other for the job we have on hand.”

No one, of course, believed this, but no one wanted to argue with Doyle about it. Father McCormack went on reading from the black-edged card which he held in his hand.

“‘Mortuary Sculptor,’”

“Sculptor!” said Dr. O’Grady. “You hear that, Major, don’t you? Sculptors are people who make statues.”

“Mortuary sculptors, I suppose,” said the Major viciously, “make statues of dead men.”

“The General’s dead anyway,” said Doyle, “so that’s suitable enough.”

“‘Address—The Monumental Studio, Michael Angelo House, Great Brunswick. Street, Dublin,’” read Father McCormack. “That’ll be where your nephew lives, Mr. Doyle?”

“It’s where he has his works,” said Doyle. “He lives down near Sandymount.”

“‘Celtic Crosses, Obelisks and every kind of Monument supplied at the shortest notice,’” said Father McCormack, still reading from the card. “‘Family Vaults decorated. Inscriptions Cut. Estimates Free. Low Prices’.”

“I don’t see that we could possibly do better than that,” said Dr. O’Grady.

“Even Doyle’s nephew can’t make a statue in ten days,” said the Major.

“He says ‘shortest notice’ on his card. You ought to believe the man, Major, until you’ve some evidence that he’s a liar.”

“I don’t care what he says,” said the Major. “He can’t make a statue in ten days.”

“We’ll get to that point in a minute,” said Dr. O’Grady. “The first thing we have to decide is whether Mr. Aloysius Doyle is a suitable man to be entrusted with the work.”

“There’s no other tenders before us,” said Father McCormack, “so I suppose we may as well——”

“Excuse my interrupting you, Father,” said Doyle, “but before you take the opinion of the meeting on this point, I’d like to say that I’m offering no opinion one way or the other; and what’s more I won’t give a vote either for or against. I wouldn’t like to do it in a case where my own nephew is a candidate.”

“You needn’t tell us that, Mr. Doyle,” said Father McCormack. “We all know that you’re not the kind of man who’d be using his public position to further the interests of his relatives. What do you say now, gentlemen? Is Mr. Aloysius Doyle to be given the contract for the statue or not? What do you say, Major?”

“If he can make a full-sized statue of a General in ten days,” said the Major, “he’s a man who deserves every encouragement we can give him.”

“Now, doctor,” said Father McCormack, “what’s your opinion?”

“I’m for giving him the job,” said the Doctor.

“Mr. Doyle won’t vote,” said Father McCormack.

“I will not,” said Doyle firmly.

“So we’d be glad of your opinion, Mr. Gallagher.”

“If his price is satisfactory,” said Gallagher, “we may as well give him the preference. I’d be in favour of supporting local talent when possible, and although Mr. Aloysius Doyle isn’t a resident among us at present, his family belongs to Ballymoy.”

“Carried unanimously,” said Father McCormack. “And now about the price. What will that nephew of yours do us a statue for, Doyle? And mind you, it must be done well.”

“Before we go into that,” said Dr. O’Grady, “I’d like the committee to hear a letter which Mr. Doyle has received from his nephew. I thought it well, considering how short the time at our disposal is——”

“Ten days,” said the Major. “Ten days to make a statue——”

“The letter which we are just going to read,” said Dr. O’Grady, “will meet the Major’s difficulty. I thought it well to get into communication with Mr. Aloysius Doyle at once so as to have everything ready for the committee.”

“I wonder you haven’t the statue ready,” said the Major.

“I wrote to him, or rather I got Doyle to write to him, the day before yesterday, and the letter you are now going to hear is his reply. I may say that we laid the circumstances full before him; especially the shortness of the time. You’re not the only person who thought of that difficulty, Major. Just read the letter, will you, Doyle?”

Doyle took up the letter which lay on the table in front of him and unfolded it. He glanced at it and then put it down and began to fumble in his pocket.

“Go ahead,” said Dr. O’Grady.

“I can’t,” said Doyle. “This isn’t that letter, but another one altogether.”

He drew his packet of papers from his pocket again and began to go through them rapidly. There was a light tap at the door.

“Who on earth’s that?” said Dr. O’Grady. “I said specially that this meeting was not to be disturbed.”

“Possibly Doyle’s nephew,” said the Major, “with a sample statue. He ought to submit samples to us.”

“Come in whoever you are,” said Dr. O’Grady.

Mary Ellen half opened the door and put her head into the room. Dr. O’Grady realised the moment he saw her that something must have gone wrong in the dressmaker’s shop. He assumed, without enquiry, that Mrs. Ford had been making herself objectionable.

“What has Mrs. Ford done now?” said Dr. O’Grady. “I can’t go to her till this meeting is over.”

“Mrs. Ford’s off home this half hour,” said Mary Ellen. “She said she wouldn’t put up with the nonsense that was going on.”

This was a relief to Dr. O’Grady. If Mrs. Ford had gone home the difficulty, whatever it was, must be capable of adjustment.

“Then what on earth do you want? Surely you and Mrs. Gregg haven’t been quarrelling with each other.”

“Mrs. Gregg says——” said Mary Ellen.

Then she paused, looked at Dr. O’Grady, looked at Doyle, and finally took courage after a glance at Father McCormack.

“She says, is there to be white stockings?”

“Certainly not,” said Dr. O’Grady. “White stockings would be entirely out of place. If we’re dressing you as an Irish colleen, Mary Ellen, we’ll do it properly. Go and tell Mrs. Gregg that your stockings are to be green, bright green. Did you ever hear such a silly question?” he added turning to the other members of the committee. “Who ever saw an Irish colleen in white stockings?”

“While you’re at it, O’Grady,” said the Major, “you’d better settle the colour of her garters.”

Mary Ellen, grinning broadly, withdrew her head and shut the door.

“What’s that about green stockings for Mary Ellen?” said Father McCormack.

“Oh, it’s all right,” said Dr. O’Grady. “The stockings will scarcely show at all. Her dress will be right down to her ankles, longer by far than the ones she usually wears. I needn’t tell you, Father McCormack, that I wouldn’t consent to dressing the girl in any way that wasn’t strictly proper. You mustn’t think——”

“I wasn’t thinking anything of the sort,” said Father McCormack.

“You very well might be,” said Dr. O’Grady, “Anyone would think we intended her to appear in a ballet skirt after that remark of the Major’s about her garters.”

“All I was thinking,” said Father McCormack, “was that if you dressed the girl up in that style she’ll never be contented again with ordinary clothes.”

“I’d be opposed, so I would,” said Gallagher, “to anything that wouldn’t be respectable in the case of Mary Ellen. Her mother was a cousin of my own, and I’ve a feeling for the girl. So if you or any other one, Doctor, is planning contrivances——”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Thady,” said Dr. O’Grady.

“I tell you she’ll be all right. Now, Doyle, will you read us that letter from your nephew? If we don’t get on with our business we’ll be here all night.”