According to the official programme—so described by Dr. O’Grady—the Lord-Lieutenant and Lady Chesterton were to arrive in Ballymoy by motor-car at half-past twelve o’clock. There might be two motor-cars. That depended on the number of aides-de-camp and of the suite which the Lord-Lieutenant brought. There would certainly be one, and Doyle had the coach-house in his back-yard emptied and carefully cleaned to serve for the garage. Everything in the town was ready before half-past ten. The statue had been erected on its pedestal the day before and excited general admiration. Even Major Kent admitted that it was a striking work of art which would be an ornament to the town. The deceased Deputy-Lieutenant was dressed in flowing robes which resembled those worn by judges. He held a large roll, intended to represent parchment, in his left hand. This, Dr. O’Grady said, might very well be taken for the original draft of the Bolivian Constitution. His right hand pointed upwards with extended forefinger. In the case of the Deputy-Lieutenant, who was almost certainly a strong Unionist, this may have symbolised an appeal to the higher powers—the House of Lords, or even the King—to refuse consent to a Home Rule Bill. When the statue ceased to be a Deputy-Lieutenant and became General John Regan the attitude was taken to express his confidence in the heavenly nature of the national liberty which he had won for Bolivia. This was the explanation of the uplifted forefinger which Dr. O’Grady offered to Thady Gallagher. But Gallagher was curiously sulky and suspicious. He seemed unimpressed.

Doyle’s nephew came down to Ballymoy and personally superintended the fixing of the statue on its pedestal. He complained that the cement supplied for the purpose by his uncle was of very inferior quality, and expressed grave doubts about the stability of the structure. Dr. O’Grady did not seem very anxious. He hinted that the people of Ballymoy would be quite satisfied if the statue stood for twenty-four hours. The weather was exceptionally fine and calm. There was no reason—if the unveiling were carefully done—why Doyle’s cement should be subjected to any strain whatever.

At nine o’clock on the morning of the Lord-Lieutenant’s visit, Dr. O’Grady, with the help of Doyle and two labourers, who had three step-ladders, veiled the statue. They draped it from the head to the bottom of the pedestal in a large sheet of blay calico of a light yellowish colour. This was carefully done, and an elaborate arrangement of string was made, leading out from the statue to the place where the Lord-Lieutenant was to stand. Dr. O’Grady satisfied himself by a series of experiments that the apparatus would work. At a single pull at the end of the string the whole sheet fluttered to the ground and exposed the Deputy-Lieutenant to public view.

It was ten o’clock before these arrangements were completed and the step-ladders taken away. Dr. O’Grady went into the barrack and warned Sergeant Colgan that he would be held personally responsible if any curious wayfarer pulled the string before the proper time. Sergeant Colgan at once ordered Moriarty to mount guard over the statue. Dr. O’Grady went over to the hotel and inspected the luncheon table. He had laid it himself the night before, so he felt fairly confident that everything was as it should be; but he was not inclined to run any risks. It was just possible that Doyle, acting on advice from somebody else, might have altered the position of the spoons and forks during the night.

“It’ll be after lunch,” said Dr. O’Grady, “that we’ll introduce the subject of a pier.”

“Then or sooner,” said Doyle.

“Hints will have been given before that,” said Dr. O’Grady. “Father McCormack has promised to touch on the undeveloped condition of our fishing industry when he’s making his introductory remarks previous to the unveiling of the statue. If I get half a chance, I mean to point out what excellent stones there are in that old mill of yours. The matter is distinctly alluded to at the end of the illuminated address, but I’m afraid they’re not likely to read that till they get back to Dublin, if then. I suppose, by the way, the address has arrived all right?”

“It has,” said Doyle, “but I haven’t it unpacked yet. It’s in a case.”

“We’d better have it quite ready. Get a screwdriver, will you, and a hammer.”

The address turned out to be very large indeed and most magnificently coloured. In the top left-hand corner was a small photograph of the market square of Ballymoy, without the statue. In the right-hand Corner was a picture, supplied by Mr. Aloysius Doyle, of the statue itself. In the bottom left-hand corner was a photograph of the Viceregal Lodge in the Phoenix Park, and opposite it a portrait of the Lord-Lieutenant in his state robes. The whole left-hand side of the address was occupied by an immensely complicated design made up of spirals, serpents, and trumpet pattern ornaments, which twisted in and out of each other in a way most bewildering to the eye. This was supposed to represent the manner in which ancient Irish artists made the letter “t,” when they were not in a hurry. “T” is the first letter of the word “to” with which the actual address began. The words “Excellency,” “Lord,” and “Lieutenant” were similarly honoured with capital letters of Celtic design, but inferior size. “Ireland,” which came on a line to itself, was blazoned in red and green, on a background of dull gold, laid on smoothly, and afterwards dinted here and there with some instrument which must have resembled a blunt pin. The rest of the letter-press was done in crooked, angular characters, very ornamental to look at, but most difficult to read.

“It’s a good address, so it is,” said Doyle, “and worth the money, though, mind you, it was a big lot we gave for it. A cheaper one would have done well enough.”

“I call it cheap at the price,” said Dr. O’Grady. “I’d no idea you could get so much for £4. Now what about the bouquet?”

“I have it in a jug of water,” said Doyle, “under the counter of the bar. I thought it would be better in water the way it would be fresh.”

“Quite right. But be sure you wipe the stalks before you give it to Mrs. Gregg. It doesn’t so much matter about Lady Chesterton. She must be pretty well accustomed to handling damp bouquets. But I’d be sorry to spoil Mrs. Gregg’s new gloves. She’s sure to have new gloves. By the way, what’s being done about getting Mary Ellen ready? That girl can’t be trusted to dress herself.”

“Mrs. Gregg is putting the clothes on her this minute,” said Doyle, “above in the best bedroom. She said she’d do it early so as she’d have time after to go home and dress herself.”

“There’s been no trouble with Moriarty, I suppose? I told you about the way he threatened me, didn’t I?”

“He hasn’t said a word to me, but he’s a fellow I wouldn’t trust further than I can see him, and he’s had an ugly look about him this three days, like as if he had some mischief in his mind.”

“I wouldn’t trust him either,” said Dr. O’Grady; “but I don’t see what he could do. He wouldn’t venture to meddle with the statue, would he? Tangle up the strings we have tied to the sheet or anything of that sort?”

“He would not; for he knows well it would be the worse for him if he did. It’s not likely Mr. Gregg would overlook it if Moriarty did anything that put a stop to Mrs. Gregg presenting the bouquet.”

“We’ll have to chance it anyway, and I don’t see that he can do much except sulk, and that won’t hurt us. I think I’ll be getting home now, Doyle. I have to shave and generally clean up a bit before the Viceregal party arrives. You don’t own a silk hat, I suppose?”

“I do not. What would I have the like for?”

“You might have worn it if you had,” said Dr. O’Grady. “My own is so old that I’m ashamed to put it on. However, it doesn’t really matter. Both the Major and Father McCormack are sure to have them, so the Lord-Lieutenant won’t notice that you and I haven’t and nobody would expect much from Thady Gallagher. After all, our hats will be in our hands most of the time, and we can keep them behind our backs.”

At half-past eleven Mary Ellen and Mrs. Gregg came out of the hotel together. Mary Ellen’s costume was beautifully complete. An English tourist accustomed to buy the coloured picture postcards with which the Germans obligingly supply our shops, would have recognised her at once as an Irish colleen. Her stockings were of the brightest shade of green. Her shoes, which were highly polished, had aggressively square toes and enormous steel buckles which flashed in the sunlight as she walked. Her skirt reached half way down the calves of her legs. It was of crimson flannel, made very wide. A green and black tartan shawl was fastened round her with a large Tara brooch which also held in its place a trail of shamrock. Underneath the shawl she had a green silk blouse. It showed very little but it exactly matched her stockings. Her hair was brushed smoothly back from her forehead, and covered with a black and white-checked kerchief tied beneath her chin and falling in a neat triangle at the nape of her neck. Mrs. Gregg, who was naturally very pleased, led Mary Ellen over to the statue, placed her beside it, and told her not to move or in any way disorder her dress. Then she herself hurried away.

Constable Moriarty, who was on guard beside the statue, scowled at Mary Ellen. He approached her slowly, walked round her, surveyed her from every point of view, and then snorted with intense disapproval.

“Your mother wouldn’t know you,” he said.

Mary Ellen smiled. She was greatly pleased at her own appearance and chose to take Moriarty’s remark as a compliment.

“She might not,” she said, in a tone of evident delight.

Moriarty intended to say more; but at that moment the town band began to play. Young Kerrigan had collected the members of it early in the day and kept them in a group outside his father’s shop. The arrival of Mary Ellen seemed to him to be a suitable occasion for a tune. He gave a signal and the band struck up. “Rich and Rare Were the Gems She Wore” was the tune on which they chanced. It was remarkably appropriate. The band marched twice round the statue playing that tune. With the last note it came to rest again in its old position outside Kerrigan’s shop. Then Thady Gallagher came out of his office. He walked over and looked at Mary Ellen.

“If you’re not ashamed of yourself,” he said, “you ought to be.”

“I am not, then,” said Mary Ellen.

Gallagher turned to Moriarty.

“You’re sure now,” he said, “that the tune the band is to play is the one you told me.”

Moriarty grinned malevolently.

“I am sure,” he said.

“For if you’re playing any kind of a trick on me——”

“I am not. Amn’t I wanting to get my knife into the doctor the same as yourself?”

“And why would you want that?”

“It’s on account of the way he has Mary Ellen dressed up. Will you look at the girl?”

Gallagher looked at her again, long and carefully.

“Play acting!” said Moriarty, “and she’s a respectable girl. It’s not decent, so it’s not.”

“If the tune’s what you say it is,” said Gallagher, “it’ll not be played in Ballymoy to-day nor any other day. I’ll put the fear of God into young Kerrigan before he’s an hour older.”

Moriarty grinned again. It seemed that, with the aid of Gallagher, he was going to hit Dr. O’Grady on a vital spot. He understood that great importance was attached to the performance of “Rule, Brittania” by the band. Gallagher walked across to young Kerrigan.

“I know now,” he said, “what the tune is you’re meaning to play.”

“If you know that,” said Kerrigan, “you know more than I do.”

“None of your lies now. Constable Moriarty is after telling me the name of the tune.”

“If you know it,” said Kerrigan, “maybe you’ll tell me. Not that I care what the name of it is, for it’s a good tune, name or no name.”

“You will care,” said Gallagher. “You will care before the day is out.”

“Why don’t you tell me the name of it, then? if so be you know it.”

“You know well why I don’t tell you. It’s because I wouldn’t defile my lips with the name of it, because I wouldn’t say the words that would be a disgrace to any Irishman.”

“You’re mighty particular,” said young Kerrigan. “It would have to be a pretty bad name that’s on the tune if it’s worse than what you said many a time.”

Gallagher was not in a mood to submit calmly to taunts of this kind. He knew that he was perfectly right in refusing to pronounce the name of the tune. He was convinced that young Kerrigan knew and was able to talk as he did only because he was dead to all sense of decency or shame.

“Let me tell you this,” he said, “and it’s my last word. If that tune’s played in Ballymoy to-day it’ll be the worse for you, and the worse for your father, and the worse for all belonging to you. Let you not play that tune or the grass will be growing on the step outside your father’s shop before any decent Nationalist will go into it to buy a bit of meat. Them that makes their living off the people will have to mind themselves that they don’t outrage the convictions of the people.”

This was an awful threat, and it cowed young Kerrigan a good deal. He did not believe that Gallagher was capable of having it carried out to the last extremity. The grass would not actually grow on his father’s doorstep, because the people of the west of Ireland, though swift and passionate in resentment, find a difficulty in keeping up a personal quarrel long enough to permit of the growth of grass. But a great deal of temporary inconvenience might be caused by a boycott initiated by Gallagher and taken up by the local branch of the League. Young Kerrigan was shaken.

“You’d better speak to the doctor about it,” he said. “It’s his tune and not mine.”

“I will speak to the doctor,” said Gallagher. “I’ll speak to him in a way he won’t like. I was thinking all along he was up to some mischief with that tune; but I didn’t know how bad it was till Moriarty was talking to me this morning. Where is the doctor?”

“He was over in Doyle’s hotel a minute ago,” said Kerrigan, “but I don’t know is he there yet. He might not be, for I seen him going out of it and along the street.”

“Wherever he is I’ll make it hot for him,” said Gallagher, as he turned away.

“Constable Moriarty be damned,” said young Kerrigan softly but fervently as soon as Gallagher was safely out of earshot. Gallagher stopped on his way to the hotel to take another scornful look at Mary Ellen.

“If your father that’s dead was alive this day,” he said, “he’d turn you out of the house when he seen you in them clothes.”

Mary Ellen had no recollection of her father, who had died before she was twelve months old, but she was more hopeful about him than Gallagher seemed to be.

“He might not,” she said.

Then Father McCormack appeared, walking briskly up the street from the-presbytery. He was wearing, as Dr. O’Grady had anticipated, a silk hat. He had a very long and voluminous frock coat. He had even, and this marked his sense of the importance of the occasion, made creases down the fronts of his trousers. Gallagher went to meet him.

“Good morning, Thady,” said Father McCormack cheerfully. “We’re in great luck with the weather.”

“Father,” said Gallagher, “you were always one that was heart and soul with the people of Ireland, and it will make you sorry, so it will, sorry and angry, to hear what I have to tell you.”

Father McCormack felt uneasy. He did not know what Gallagher meant to tell him, but he was uncomfortably conscious that the day of the Lord-Lieutenant’s visit might be a highly inconvenient time for proving his devotion to the cause of the people. The worst of devotion to any cause is that it makes demands on the devotee at moments when it is most difficult to fulfil them. Father McCormack tried feebly to put off the evil hour.

“To-morrow, Thady, to-morrow,” he said. “There isn’t time now. It’s half-past eleven, and the Lord-Lieutenant may be here any minute.”

“Begging your reverence’s pardon,” said Gallagher firmly, “but to-morrow will be too late. The insult that is about to be offered to the people of this locality will be offered to-day if a stop’s not put to it.”

“Nonsense, Thady, nonsense, nobody is going to insult us.”

“You wouldn’t know about it,” said Gallagher, “for you’d be the last man they’d dare to tell, knowing well that you’d be as angry as I am myself. Do you know what the tune is that the doctor has taught to the band?”

Father McCormack did know, but he was very unwilling to enter into a discussion of the subject with Gallagher.

“Constable Moriarty,” said Gallagher, “is after telling me the name of the tune, and you’d be surprised, so you would, if you heard it.”

“You may be mistaken, Thady, you may be mistaken. One tune’s very like another when it’s played on a band.”

“I am not mistaken,” said Gallagher, who was beginning to feel suspicious about the priest’s evident desire to shelve the subject.

“And anyway,” said Father McCormack, “it’s Dr. O’Grady himself that you’d better be speaking to about the tune.”

“I will speak to him; but he’s not here presently.”

“Try Doyle then,” said Father McCormack. “There he is coming out of the hotel. I haven’t time to go into the matter. I want to go over and look at Mary Ellen.”

He slipped away as he spoke, leaving Gallagher standing, sulky and very suspicious, by himself. Doyle, who had no reason to think that anything had gone wrong, greeted him heartily. Gallagher replied angrily.

“Do you know what tune it is that the band’s going to play?” he said.

“You and your old tune!” said Doyle. “You had the life plagued out of me about that tune. Can’t you let it alone?”

“I will not let it alone, for——”

“Was it that you were talking to the priest about?”

“It was, and——”

“I thought it might have been,” said Doyle, “by the look of him. Why can’t you have sense, Thady, instead of tormenting the whole town about a tune?”

“It’s my belief,” said Gallagher, “that he knows more about the tune than he’d care to own up to. He and the doctor is in the conspiracy together.”

“I’ll not stand here listening to you talking disrespectfully about the clergy,” said Doyle with a fine show of indignation.

He felt that he was on doubtful ground in discussing the tune, which might, for all he knew, be an objectionable one. It was a satisfaction to be able to put himself definitely in the right by protesting against Gallagher’s tendency to anti-clericalism.

“I’d be the last man in Ireland,” said Gallagher, “that would say a word against the clergy, but when we get Home Rule—and that won’t be long now, please God——”

He paused impressively.

“Well,” said Doyle, “what’ll you do to the clergy when you get Home Rule?”

“There’s some of them that will be put in their places mighty quick, them that’s opposing the will of the people of Ireland behind their backs.”

“If you mean Father McCormack, Thady, you’d better go home before you’ve said what you’ll be sorry for.”

“I’ll not go home till I’ve told the doctor what I think of him.”

“Well, go and see him,” said Doyle. “He’s in his house. When you come back you can tell me what he says to you. That’ll be better worth hearing than anything you’re likely to say to him.”

Doyle looked round with an air of some satisfaction when Gallagher left him. He had no doubt that Dr. O’Grady would be able to deal satisfactorily with the difficulty about the tune. Everything else seemed to be going well. A considerable number of people had already gathered in the square. The band stood ready to play. Father McCormack was apparently very much pleased with the appearance of Mary Ellen. Constable Moriarty was on guard over the statue, looking unusually stern. Sergeant Colgan had come out of the barrack and was exerting all his authority to keep back a number of small children who wanted to investigate Mary Ellen’s costume. Every time any of them approached her with the intention of pulling her shawl or testing by actual touch the material of her skirt, Sergeant Colgan spoke majestically.

“Get away out of that,” he said. “Get along home out of that, the whole of yez.”

The children did not, of course, obey him literally; but they always drew back from Mary Ellen when he spoke, and it was generally at least a minute before the boldest of them ventured to touch her again.