LITMIR.BIZ

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got out on me, I might never get the farm. I can trust you on account of the hold I have over you with all the talk there is about Mrs. Gannon."

      "It'll take me three days to go to Belfast and back and get the printing done. How can I go off for three days? Somebody else will die while I am away, and then there'll be more talk."

      "Let them die. Amn't I the Chairman, and can't I get you leave of absence for a night or two? I'd like to see the man that would make talk about dying when I bid him keep his mouth shut. That part's all right."

      "Why can't I draw up the notices, and get them printed somewhere else besides Belfast?"

      "Do you take me for a fool? Or are you a fool yourself? Any of the printers about this part of the country would talk, or, if they didn't, their men would. Then the whole thing would come out."

      "It's sure to come out sooner or later. Somebody'll find out that the League never sent out the notices."

      "I don't care if it does come out, so long as it doesn't come out before the auction."

      "There'll be the hell of a row afterwards!"

      "There will not. I'm the biggest subscriber there is to the funds of the League. They won't want to be making a row about my doings. Besides, there's hardly a man of them but is in my books."

      "How am I to post them up, supposing I had them? Do you think I'm going round the country in the dead of night, with a pot of paste in one hand and a paint brush in the other?"

      "If that's all that's troubling you, I'll send the girl to carry the paste. She's a half-witted creature, anyway, and she'd be afraid to speak, let alone that nobody would listen to her if she did itself."

      "Give me a fiver for my exes, and I'll do it."

      Mr. Patrick Sweeny extracted five greasy notes from a leather pocket-book, and handed them to his nephew.

      III

       Two days before the auction of the Widow Flanagan's farm, the people of the neighbourhood enjoyed a sensation. A number of notices appeared on the walls and gate-posts. They were very striking notices, printed on bright-green paper, which emphasised the fact that they were in the highest degree patriotic. They were headed with these words, which stood out in large characters:

      TO THE PEOPLE OF IRELAND.

       Next, in smaller type, came a paragraph, beginning: "Whereas a heartless and abominable eviction." Then came a good deal of strong language, what English grammarians call extension of the subject, about tyrants, exterminators, Castle government, and other matters of a similar kind. Monotony of appearance was avoided by another bold headline:

      MEN OF CONNAUGHT.

       The paragraph below it contained an appeal to the patriotic feelings of the inhabitants of the province, who were urged to defeat the schemes of the reprobates named in the first paragraph. Then, in type yet larger than that of the other headlines, came the ominous word:

      TRAITORS.

       It appeared from what followed that anyone who made a bid for the Widow Flanagan's farm would be a traitor to the cause of Ireland, to the Catholic religion, the freedom of humanity, and several other high and holy things. Then, lest the mere imputation of treachery might not prove a deterrent from the practice of iniquity, it was plainly hinted that the traitor would suffer in person and in pocket from the righteous indignation of the populace. The whole wound up with a prayer, singularly appropriate at the bottom of such a notice, "God save Ireland."

      The notice produced a great deal of excitement, and affected people in a number of different ways. Some energetic men set to work at once to collect a fund for the benefit of the Widow Flanagan. This shows how excellent a thing patriotism is. Until the green notices appeared, no one had thought of doing anything for the poor evicted tenant. Mr. Patrick Sweeny headed the subscription list with a pound. Others not less energetic set to work to organise a public meeting, and telegraphed to a member of Parliament to come and address it. These men were full of joy. On the other hand, the auctioneer was depressed. He said nothing publicly, but he lamented to his wife that he had lost £10 or £15. Nobody, he thought, would now bid for the farm. It was creditable to him that after such a blow he gave ten shillings to the relief of Mrs. Flanagan. The land-agent read the notice, and was exceedingly angry. He also understood that no one would bid for the farm. He wrote a long account of the proceedings to a member of Parliament, not the same member of Parliament who was requested to address the public meeting, and a question was asked in the House of Commons, which was reported in The Times under the heading, "Intimidation in the West." The bank manager read the notice, and wrote to certain of his customers to say that his directors declined to authorise the advances which he had previously promised. He understood that the tenant's right in the Widow Flanagan's farm had ceased to be a satisfactory security. Mr. Sweeny served out an unusual quantity of drinks across his counter to men who wanted to discuss the best way of dealing with land grabbers. Dr. Henaghan was found helplessly drunk outside the door of his uncle's house, and was conducted home by two policemen.

      There was a large attendance at the auction next day. The people were anxious to find out whether anyone would dare to bid for the farm. It was suspected that a certain Scotchman, one McNab, might venture to defy the popular wrath, and argument ran high about what should be done to him afterwards. McNab was, in fact, quite willing to acquire a valuable property cheap if he could; but he had very little money of his own, and was one of those to whom the bank manager had refused an advance. Still he had hopes. It was a sheriff's sale. There would be no reserve price. He gathered all the money he could lay hands on, and faced the auctioneer with a look of grim determination.

      The farm was put up, "offered up," to use the phrase of the local auctioneer. The expression was suitable enough, for it seemed likely that not only the farm, but the Widow Flanagan, would be placed in the position of sacrifices, whole-burnt offerings to the unconquerable love of liberty which animates the breasts of Irishmen.

      "Twenty pounds," said McNab, the Scotchman.

      The crowd hissed, booed, and cursed with the utmost heartiness. Not a man present but was extremely angry at the idea of McNab acquiring for twenty pounds what everybody else was afraid to bid for. McNab thrust his hands deep into his breeches pockets and grinned. When the noise subsided the auctioneer made himself heard:

      "Any advance upon twenty pounds? Come, gentlemen, the farm's worth £300 if it's worth a penny."

      "Twenty-five pounds," said a voice.

      Sheer amazement at the audacity of this second bidder held the crowd silent. That McNab, a Scotchman, an outsider, a well-known contemner of all the decencies of public life, should make a bid was bad enough. That there should be another such reprobate in the neighbourhood was beyond all expectation. A whisper passed, like a summer breeze, from ear to ear. The name of the new bidder was known.

      "Sweeny for ever! Cheers for Sweeny!" yelled a voice in the outskirts of the crowd, the voice of the rate-collector, Mr. Sweeny's son-in-law. The people, dimly conscious that matters of high politics were in acting, cheered obediently.

      "Thirty pounds," said McNab.

      "Thirty-five pounds," said Sweeny.

      Another burst of cheering followed the bid. McNab turned and left the crowd. He had reached the bottom of his purse. Mr. Patrick Sweeny was duly declared the purchaser of the Widow Flanagan's farm. The crowd, with some curiosity, waited for an explanation.

      Mr. Sweeny, feeling that a speech was due, mounted the auctioneer's chair, and delivered himself:

      "Fellow-countrymen! I needn't tell you, nor I needn't tell any assembly of Irishmen, that I'm no land-grabber."

      "You are not," shouted the rate-collector. "We know that."

      "I've stood by the Nationalist cause," said Mr. Sweeny, "the cause of old Ireland, the land of saints and scholars, since ever I learnt to stand by my mother's knee. And I mean to stand by it till every landlord and land-grabber

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