Gallagher was not in a mood to submit calmly to taunts of this kind. He knew that he was perfectly right in refusing to p.r.o.nounce 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 gra.s.s 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 gra.s.s would not actually grow on his father's doorstep, because the people of the west of Ireland, though swift and pa.s.sionate in resentment, find a difficulty in keeping up a personal quarrel long enough to permit of the growth of gra.s.s. 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 d.a.m.ned," 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 antic.i.p.ated, 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, n.o.body 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 G.o.d??"

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.

CHAPTER XVIII