Lord Dunseverick picked his way delicately among the pools and tough cobble stones. He was a very well-dressed young man, and he seemed out of place amid the miry traffic of the Belfast quays. A casual observer would have put him down as a fashionable nincompoop, one of those young men whose very appearance is supposed to move the British worker to outbursts of socialistic fury. The casual observer would, in this case, have been mistaken. Lord Dunseverick, in spite of his well-fitting clothes, his delicately coloured tie, and his general air of sleek well-being, was at that moment—it was the month of May, 1914—something of a hero with the Belfast working man. And the Belfast working man, as everybody knows, is more bitterly contemptuous of the idle rich, especially of the idle rich with titles, than any other working man.

The Belfast working man had just then worked himself up to a degree of martial ardour, unprecedented even in Ulster, in his opposition to Home Rule. Lord Dunseverick was one of the generals of the Ulster Volunteer Force. He had made several speeches which moved Belfast to wild delight and sober-minded men elsewhere to dubious shaking of the head. Enthusiasm in a cause is a fine thing, especially in the young, but when Lord Dunseverick’s enthusiasm led him to say that he would welcome the German Emperor at the head of his legions as the deliverer of Ulster from the tyranny of a Parliament in Dublin, why then—then the rank and file of the volunteer army cheered, and other people wondered whether it were quite wise to say such things. Yet Lord Dunseverick, when not actually engaged in making a speech, was a pleasant and agreeable young man with a keen sense of humour. He even—and this is a rare quality in men—saw the humorous side of his own speeches. The trouble was that he never saw it till after he had made them.

A heavy motor-lorry came thundering along the quay. Lord Dunseverick dodged it, and escaped with his life. He was splashed from head to foot with mud. He looked at his neat boots and well-fashioned grey trousers. The black slime lay thick on them. He wiped a spot of mud off his cheek and rubbed some wet coal dust into his collar. Then he lit a cigarette, and smiled.

He stepped into the porch of a reeking public-house and found himself beside a grizzled man, who looked like a sailor. Lord Dunseverick turned to him.

“Can you tell me,” he said, “where Mr. McMunn’s office is?”

“Is it coal you’re wanting?” asked the sailor.

It is thus that questions are often met in Belfast with counter-questions. Belfast is a city of business men, and it is not the habit of business men to give away anything, even information, without getting something in return. The counter-question may draw some valuable matter by way of answer from the original questioner. In this case the counter-question was a reasonable one. McMunn, of McMunn Brothers, Limited, was a coal merchant. Lord Dunseverick, though a peer, belonged to the north of Ireland. He understood Belfast.

“What I want,” he said, “is to see Mr. Andrew McMunn.”

“I’ve business with Andrew McMunn myself,” said the sailor, “and I’m going that way.”

“Good. Then we’ll go together.”

“My name,” said the sailor, “is Ginty. If you’re intimate with Andrew McMunn you’ll likely have heard of me.”

“I haven’t. But that’s no reason why you shouldn’t show me the way.”

“It’s no that far,” said Ginty.

They walked together, sometimes side by side, sometimes driven apart by a string of carts.

“If it had been Jimmy McMunn you wanted to see,” said Ginty, “you might have had further to go. Some says Jimmy’s in the one place, and more is of opinion that he’s in the other. But I’ve no doubt in my own mind about where Andrew will go when his time comes.”

“You know him pretty well, then?”

“Ay, I do. It would be queer if I didn’t, seeing that I’ve sailed his ships this ten year. Andrew McMunn will go to heaven.”

“Ah,” said Lord Dunseverick, “he’s a good man, then?”

“I’ll no go so far as to say precisely that,” said Ginty, “but he’s a man who never touches a drop of whisky nor smokes a pipe of tobacco. It’ll be very hard on him if he doesna go to heaven after all he’s missed in this world. But you’ll find out what kind of man he is if you go in through the door forninst you. It’s his office, thon one with the brass plate on the door. My business will keep till you’re done with him.”

Lord Dunseverick pushed open one of a pair of swinging doors, and found himself in a narrow passage. On his right was a ground glass window bearing the word “Inquiries.” He tapped at it.

For a minute or two there was no response. Lord Dunseverick brushed some of the mud, now partially dry, off his trousers, and lit a fresh cigarette. The ground glass window was opened, and a redhaired clerk looked out.

“I want to see Mr. McMunn,” said Lord Dunseverick, “Mr. Andrew McMunn.”

The clerk put his head and shoulders out through the window, and surveyed Lord Dunseverick suspiciously. Very well dressed young men, with pale lavender ties and pearl tie-pins—Lord Dunseverick had both—are not often seen in Belfast quay-side offices.

“If you want to see Mr. McMunn,” said the clerk, “—and I’m no saying you will, mind that—you’d better take yon cigarette out of your mouth. There’s no smoking allowed here.”

Lord Dunseverick took his cigarette out of his mouth, but he did not throw it away. He held it between his fingers.

“Just tell Mr. McMunn,” he said, “that Lord Dunseverick is here.”

The clerk’s manner altered suddenly. He drew himself up, squared his shoulders, and saluted.

The discovery that a stranger is a man of high rank often produces this kind of effect on men of strong democratic principles, principles of the kind held by clerks in all business communities, quite as firmly in Belfast as elsewhere. But it would have been a mistake to suppose that Mr. McMunn’s junior clerk was a mere worshipper of title. His salute was not the tribute of a snob to the representative of an aristocratic class. It was the respect due by a soldier, drilled and disciplined, to his superior officer. It was also the expression of a young man’s sincere hero-worship. The redhaired clerk was a Volunteer, duly enrolled, one of the signatories of the famous Ulster Covenant. Lord Dunseverick had made speeches which moved his soul to actual rapture.

“Come inside, my lord,” he said. “I’ll inform Mr. McMunn at once.”

Lord Dunseverick passed through a door which was held open for him. He entered a large office, very grimy, which is the proper condition of a place where documents concerning coal are dealt with. Six other clerks were at work there. When Lord Dunseverick entered, all six of them stood up and saluted. They, too, so it appeared, were members of the Volunteer Force. The red-haired junior clerk crossed the room towards a door marked “Private.” Then he paused, and turned to Lord Dunseverick.

“Might I be so bold as to ask a question?” he said.

“A dozen if you like,” said Lord Dunseverick.

“What about the rifles? It’s only them we’re wanting now. We’re drilled and we’re ready, but where’s the rifles?”

“You shall have them,” said Lord Dunseverick.

The clerks in Mr. McMunn’s office were accustomed to behave with decorum. No more than a low murmur of approval greeted Lord Dunseverick’s words; but the men looked as if they wished to cheer vehemently. The red-haired boy tapped at the door which was marked “Private.” A minute later he invited Lord Dunseverick to pass through it.

Andrew McMunn is a hard-faced, grizzled little man, with keen blue eyes. He can, when he chooses, talk excellent English. He prefers, when dealing with strangers, to speak with a strong Belfast accent, and to use, if possible, north of Ireland words and phrases. This is his way of asserting independence of character. He admires independence.

His office is a singularly unattractive room. He writes at a large table, and has a fireproof safe at his elbow. There are three wooden chairs ranged against the wall opposite the writing-table. Four photographs of steamers, cheaply framed, hang above the chairs. They are The Andrew McMunn, The Eliza McMunn, and, a tribute to the deceased Jimmy, The McMunn Brothers. These form the fleet owned by the firm, and carry coal from one port to another, chiefly to Belfast. On the chimney-piece under a glass shade, is a model of The McMunn Brothers, the latest built and largest of the ships.

“Good-morning to you, my lord!” said McMunn, without rising from his seat.

He nodded towards one of the chairs which stood against the wall. This was his way of inviting his visitor to sit down. His eyes were fixed, with strong disapproval, on the cigarette, which still smoked feebly in Lord Dunseverick’s hand.

“Your clerk gave me a hint,” said Dunseverick, “that you object to tobacco.”

“It’s my opinion,” said McMunn, “that the man who pays taxes that he needn’t pay—I’m alluding to the duty on tobacco, you’ll understand—for the sake of poisoning himself with a nasty stink, is little better than a fool. That’s my opinion, and I’m of the same way of thinking about alcoholic drink.”

Lord Dunseverick deposited the offending cigarette on the hearth and crushed it with his foot.

“Teetotaller?” he said. “I dare say you’re right, though I take a whisky-and-soda myself when I get the chance.”

“You’ll no get it here,” said McMunn; “and what’s more, you’ll no’ get it on any ship owned by me.”

“Thank you. It’s as well to understand before-hand.”

“I’m a believer in speaking plain,” said McMunn. “There’s ay less chance of trouble afterwards if a man speaks plain at the start. But I’m thinking that it wasn’t to hear my opinion on the Christian religion that your lordship came here the day.”

McMunn, besides being a teetotaller, and opposed to the smoking of tobacco, was the president of a Young Men’s Anti-Gambling League. He was, therefore, in a position to throw valuable light on the Christian religion.

“I came to settle the details about this expedition to Hamburg,” said Lord Dunseverick.

“Well,” said McMunn, “there’s no that much left to settle. The Brothers is ready.”

“The Brothers?”

“The McMunn Brothers. Thon’s the model of her on the chimneypiece.”

Lord Dunseverick looked at the model attentively. It represented a very unattractive ship. Her bow was absurdly high, cocked up like the snout of a Yorkshire pig. Her long waist lay low, promising little freeboard in a sea. Her engines and single funnel were aft. On a short, high quarterdeck was her bridge and a squat deck-house. She was designed, like her owner, for purely business purposes.

“You’ll have the captain’s cabin,” said McMunn. “Him and me will sleep in the saloon.”

“Oh, you’re coming too?”

“I am. Have you any objection?”

“None whatever. I’m delighted. We’ll have a jolly time.”

“I’ll have you remember,” said McMunn, “that it’s not pleasuring we’re out for.”

“It’s serious business. Smuggling rifles in the teeth of a Royal Proclamation is——”

“When I understand,” said McMunn, “and you understand, where’s the use of saying what we’re going for? I’m taking risks enough anyway, without unnecessary talking. You never know who’s listening to you.”

“About paying for the—er—the—er—our cargo? Is that all arranged?”

“They’ll be paid in bills on a Hamburg bank,” said McMunn.

“Won’t they expect cash? I should have thought that in transactions of this kind——”

“You’re not a business man, my lord; but I’d have you know that a bill with the name of McMunn to it is the same as cash in any port in Europe.”

“Well, that’s your part of the affair. I am leaving that to you.”

“You may leave it. What I say I’ll do. But there’s one thing that I’m no quite easy in my mind about.”

“If you’re thinking about the landing of the guns——”

“I’m no asking what arrangements you’ve made about that. The fewer there is that knows what’s being done in a business of this kind, the better for all concerned. What’s bothering me is this. There’s a man called Edelstein.”

“Who’s he? I never heard of him before.”

“He’s the Baron von Edelstein, if that’s any help to you.”

“It isn’t. He’s not the man we’re buying the stuff from.”

“He is not. Nor he wasn’t mentioned from first to last till the letter I got the day.”

He turned to the safe beside him and drew out a bundle of papers held together by an elastic band.

“That’s the whole of the correspondence,” he said, “and there’s the last of it.”

He handed a letter to Lord Dunseverick, who read it through carefully.

“This baron,” he said, “whoever he is, intends to pay his respects to us before we leave Hamburg. Very civil of him.”

“It’s a civility we could do without. When I’m doing business I’d rather do it with business men, and a baron, you’ll understand, is no just——”

“I’m a baron myself,” said Lord Dunseverick.

“Ay, you are.”

McMunn said no more. He left it to be understood that his opinion of barons in general was not improved by his acquaintance with Lord Dunseverick.

“I don’t think we need bother about Von Eddstein, anyway,” said Lord Dunseverick. “What harm can he do us?”

“I’m no precisely bothering about him,” said McMunn; “but I’d be easier in my mind if I knew what he wanted with us.”

“We sail to-night, anyway,” said Lord Dunseverick.

“Ay, we do. I tell’t Ginty. He’s the captain of The McMunn Brothers, and a good man.”

“I’ve met him. In fact——”

“If you’ve met Ginty you’ve met a man who knows his business, though I wish he’d give over drinking whisky. However, he’s a strong Protestant and a sound man, and you can’t expect perfection.”

“Capital!” said Lord Dunseverick. “It’s a great comfort to be sure of one’s men.”

“I wish I was as sure of every one as I am of Ginty,” said McMunn. “I’m no saying that your lordship’s not sound. The speech you made last night at Ballymena was good enough, and I’m with you in every word of it; but——”

“Oh, speeches!” said Lord Dunseverick.

He was uneasily conscious that he had allowed himself to be carried away by the excitement of the occasion when speaking at Ballymena. It was right and proper to threaten armed resistance to Home Rule. It was another thing to offer a warm welcome to the German Emperor if he chose to land in Ulster. The cold emphasis with which McMunn expressed agreement with every word of the speech made Lord Dunseverick vaguely uneasy.

“Ay,” said McMunn; “your speeches are well enough, and I don’t say, mind you, that you’re not a sound man; but I’d be better pleased if you were more serious. You’re too fond of joking, in my opinion.”

“Good heavens!” said Lord Dunseverick. “I haven’t ventured on the ghost of a joke since I came into your office!” He looked round him as he spoke, and fixed his eyes at last on the fireproof safe. “Nobody could.”

“It’s no what you’ve said, it’s your lordship’s appearance. But it’s too late to alter that, I’m thinking.”

“Not at all,” said Lord Dunseverick. “I’ll join you this evening in a suit of yellow oilskins, the stickiest kind, and a blue fisherman’s jersey, and a pair of sea-boots. I’ll have——”

“You will,” said McMunn, “and you’ll look like a play actor. It’s just what I’m complaining of.”