“I’ll say this for old MacManaway, an honester man never lived nor what
he was; and I’m sorry he’s gone, so I am.”
The speaker was Dan Gallaher. The occasion was the morning of the
auction of old MacManaway’s property. The place was the yard behind the
farmhouse in which MacManaway had lived, a solitary man, without wife or
child, for fifty years. Dan Gallaher held the hames of a set of harness
in his hand as he spoke and critically examined the leather of the
traces. It was good leather, sound and well preserved. Old MacManaway
while alive liked sound things and took good care of his property.
“An honester man never lived,” Dan repeated “And I’m not saying that
because the old man and me agreed together, for we didn’t.”
“How could you agree?” said James McNiece. “It wasn’t to be expected
that you would agree. There wasn’t a stronger Protestant nor a greater
Orangeman in the whole country nor old MacManaway.”
James McNiece turned from the examination of a cart as he spoke and gave
his attention to the hames. His description of the dead man’s religious
and political convictions was just. No one in all the Ulster border land
ever held the principle of the Orange Society more firmly or opposed any
form of Home Rule more bitterly than old MacManaway.
And Dan Gallaher was a Roman Catholic and a Nationalist of the extremest
kind.
“They tell me,” said Dan Gallaher, in a pleasant conversational tone,
“that it’s to be yourself, James McNiece, that’s to be the head of the
Orangemen in the parish now that MacManaway is gone.”
James looked at him sideways out of the corners of his eyes. Dan spoke
in a friendly tone, but it is never wise to give any information to
“Papishes and rebels.”
“The Colonel,” he said, “is the Grand Master of the Orangemen in these
parts.”
Colonel Eden, a J.P., and the principal landlord in the parish, drove
into the yard in his motor. A police sergeant slipped his pipe into his
pocket, stepped forward and took the number of the Colonel’s car. It has
never been decided in Ireland whether motor cars may or may not be used,
under the provisions of D.O.R.A., for attending auctions.
We know that the safety of the empire is compromised by driving to a
race meeting. We know that the King and his Army are in no way injured
by our driving to market. Attendance at an auction stands midway
between pleasure and business; and the use of motors in such matters is
debatable.
“It’s the D.I’s orders, sir,” said the sergeant apologetically.
“All right,” said the Colonel, “but if the D.I. expects me to fine
myself at the next Petty Sessions hell be disappointed.”
James McNiece and Dan Gallaher touched their hats to the Colonel.
“Morning, James,” said the Colonel. “Morning, Dan. Fine day for the
sale, and a good gathering of people. I don’t know that I ever saw a
bigger crowd at an auction.”
He looked round as he spoke. The whole parish and many people from
outside the parish had assembled. The yard was full of men, handling and
appraising the outdoor effects. Women passed in and out of the house,
poked mattresses with their fingers, felt the fabrics of sheets and
curtains, examined china and kitchen utensils warily.
“There’s the doctor over there,” said the Colonel, “looking at the
stable buckets, and who’s that young fellow in the yellow leggings,
James?”
“I’m not rightly sure,” said James McNiece, “but I’m thinking he’ll be
the new D.I. from Curraghfin.”
“It is him,” said Dan Gallaher. “I was asking the sergeant this minute
and he told me. What’s more he said he was a terrible sharp young
fellow.”
“That won’t suit you, Dan,” said the Colonel. “You and your friends will
have to be a bit careful before you get up another rebellion.”
“It may not suit me,” said Dan, “but there’s others it won’t suit
either. Didn’t I see the sergeant taking the number of your motor,
Colonel, and would he be doing the like of that if the new D.I. hadn’t
told him?”
The Colonel laughed. As commander of a battalion of the Ulster Volunteer
Force, he was fully prepared to meet Dan Gallaher on the field of
battle--Dan leading the National Volunteers. He looked forward with
something like pleasure to the final settlement of the Home Rule
question by the ordeal of battle. In the meanwhile he and Dan Gallaher
by no means hated each other, and were occasionally in full sympathy
when the police or some ridiculous Government department made trouble by
fussy activity.
Mr. Robinson, the auctioneer, drove up in his dogcart. He touched his
hat to Colonel Eden, gave an order to his clerk and crossed the yard
briskly. He twisted the cigarette he smoked into the corner of his mouth
with deft movements of his lips, waved his hand to various acquaintances
and looked round him with quick, cheerful glances. No man in the country
was quicker to appreciate the financial worth of a crowd. He knew before
a single bid was made whether people were in a mood to spend lavishly.
He found himself very well satisfied with the prospect of this
particular auction. The stuff he had to sell, indoors and out, was good.
The farmers were enjoying a prosperous season. They had money in their
pockets which they would certainly want to spend. Mr. Robinson had
visions of a percentage, his share of the proceeds, running into three
figures.
He began work in a corner of the yard with a cross-cut saw. The bidding
rose merrily to a point slightly higher than the cost of a similar saw
new in a shop. At 23/6 Mr. Robinson knocked it down to a purchaser who
seemed well satisfied. A number of small articles, scythes, barrows,
spades, were sold rapidly, Mr. Robinson moving round the yard from
outhouse to outhouse, surrounded by an eager crowd which pressed on him.
His progress was not unlike that of a queen bee at swarming time. He
made--as she makes--short flights, and always at the end of them found
himself in the centre of a cluster of followers.
At about half-past twelve Mr. Robinson reached his most important lot.
He lit a fresh cigarette--his eighth--before putting up for sale a rick
of hay.
“About four tons,” said Mr. Robinson, “new meadow hay, well saved, saved
with not a drop of rain. Gentlemen, I needn’t tell you that this is a
rare, under existing conditions, a unique opportunity. Hay--you know
this better than I do--is at present unobtainable in the ordinary market.
Now, don’t disappoint me, gentlemen. Let me have a reasonable offer.
Thirty pounds. Did I hear some one say fifteen pounds? Less than four
pounds a ton! Now, gentlemen, really----”
But the crowd in front of Mr. Robinson knew just as well as he did that
four pounds a ton is not a reasonable offer. The bids succeeded each
other rapidly. The original fifteen pounds changed to twenty pounds,
then to twenty-five, rose a little more slowly to thirty pounds. At
thirty-two pounds the bidding hesitated. Mr. Robinson, dropping his
cigarette from his mouth, urged his clients on with gusts of eloquence.
There was a short spurt. The bids rose by five shillings at a time and
finally stopped dead at thirty-four pounds. The hay was sold at a little
over eight pounds a ton. Public interest, roused to boiling point by the
sale of a whole rick of hay, cooled down a little when Mr. Robinson went
on to the next lot on his list.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “I am now offering the hay stored in the loft
above the stable. A small lot, gentlemen, but prime hay. I offer no
guarantee as to the quantity in the loft; but I should guess it at
anything between ten and fifteen hundred-weight.”
Several of the more important farmers drew out of the crowd which
surrounded Mr. Robinson. It was not worth while bidding for so small a
quantity of hay. Other members of the crowd, feeling that a breathing
space had been granted them, took packets of sandwiches from their
pockets and sat down in one of the outhouses to refresh themselves.
Mr. Robinson viewed the diminishing group of bidders with some
disappointment. He was gratified to see that the new police officer from
Curraghfin, a gentleman who had not so far made a single bid, crossed
the yard and took a place on the steps leading to the loft. Colonel
Eden, too, appeared interested in the new lot of hay. If the inspector
of police and Colonel Eden began to bid against each other the hay might
realize a good price.
“Now, gentlemen,” said Mr. Robinson, “shall we make a start with three
pounds?”
He glanced at Colonel Eden, then at the police officer. Neither
gentleman made any sign of wishing to bid. It was James McNiece who made
the first offer.
“Two pounds,” he said.
There was a pause.
“Two pounds,” said Mr. Robinson, “two pounds. Going at two pounds.
You’re not going to let this hay,--more than half a ton of it--go at two
pounds.”
He looked appealingly at Colonel Eden and at the police officer. They
were entirely unresponsive.
“And at two pounds, going----” said Mr. Robinson.
“Two-ten,” said Dan Gallaher, in a quiet voice.
“Two-fifteen,” said James McNiece.
Dan Gallaher, still apparently bored by the proceedings, raised the
price another five shillings. James McNiece went half a crown further.
Dan Gallaher, becoming slightly interested, made a jump to three pounds
ten. McNiece, with an air of finality, bid four pounds. The contest
began to attract attention. When the price rose to five pounds interest
became lively, and those who had drawn out of the group round Mr.
Robinson began to dribble back. It seemed likely that the contest
was one of those, not uncommon at Irish auctions, into which personal
feelings enter largely and the actual value of the article sold is
little considered. There was a certain piquancy about a struggle of this
kind between a prominent Orangeman like James McNiece, and Dan Gallaher,
whom everyone knew to be the leader of the Sinn Fein party.
Interest developed into actual excitement when the price rose to ten
pounds. A half ton of hay never is and never has been worth ten pounds.
But ten pounds was by no means the final bid.
“Mr. McNiece,” said Mr. Robinson, “the bid is against you.”
“Guineas,” said McNiece.
“Eleven,” said Dan Gallaher.
“Guineas,” said McNiece.
The duet went on, McNiece capping Gallaher’s pounds with a monotonous
repetition of the word guineas until the price rose to twenty pounds.
At that point McNiece faltered for a moment. The auctioneer, watching
keenly, saw him turn half round and look at Colonel Eden. The Colonel
nodded slightly, so slightly that no one except Mr. Robinson and McNiece
himself saw the gesture.
“At twenty pounds,” said Mr. Robinson, “going, and at twenty pounds----”
“Thirty,” said McNiece.
The crowd of watchers gasped audibly. This was something outside of all
experience. A man might willingly pay a few shillings, even a pound,
too much for the sake of getting the better of an opponent; but to give
thirty pounds for half a ton of hay--not even the natural enmity of an
Orangeman for a Sinn Feiner would account for such recklessness.
“Guineas,” said Dan Gallaher.
It was his turn to say guineas now, and he repeated the word without
faltering until the price rose to fifty pounds. Mr. Robinson took
off his hat and wiped the sweat from his forehead. Never in all his
experience of auctions had he heard bidding like this. He lit a fresh
cigarette, holding the match in fingers which trembled visibly.
“You will understand, gentlemen, that I am only selling the hay, not the
barn or the stable.”
“Guineas,” said Dan Gallaher.
It was the last bid. As he made it Colonel Eden turned and walked out
of the group round the auctioneer. James McNiece took his pipe from his
pocket and filled it slowly.
“The hay is yours, Mr. Gallaher,” said the auctioneer.
Dan Gallaher, having secured the hay, left the yard. He found his horse,
which he had tethered to a tree, and mounted. He rode slowly down the
rough lane which led from the farm. At the gate leading to the high road
the police sergeant stopped him.
“If you wouldn’t mind waiting a minute, Mr. Gallaher,” said the
sergeant, “the D.I. would like to speak to you.”
“What about?” said Gallaher.
The sergeant winked ponderously.
“It might be,” he said, “about the hay you’re just after buying.”
“If he wants it,” said Gallaher, “he can have it, and I’ll deliver it to
him at his own home at half the price I paid for it.”
The District Inspector, smiling and tapping his gaiters with a riding
switch, explained in a few words that he did not want the hay and did
not intend to pay for it.
“I’m taking over the contents of that loft,” he said, “in the name of
the Government under the provisions of D.O.R.A.”
“I don’t know,” said Gallaher, “that you’ve any right to be taking over
what I’ve bought in that kind of way, and what’s more you’ll not be
able to do it without you show me a proper order in writing, signed by a
magistrate.”
“If I were you,” said the D.I., “I wouldn’t insist on any kind of legal
trial about that hay. At present there’s no evidence against you, Mr.
Gallaher, except that you paid a perfectly absurd price for some hay
that you didn’t want, and I’m not inclined to press the matter now.
I’ve got what I wanted; but if you insist on dragging the matter into
Court----”
“I do not,” said Gallaher.
At ten o’clock that evening Dan Gallaher and James McNiece sat together
in the private room behind the bar of Sam Twining’s public-house. The
house was neutral ground used by Orangemen and Nationalists alike, a
convenient arrangement, indeed a necessary arrangement, for there was no
other public-house nearer than Curraghfin.
“Dan,” said James McNiece, “I’m an Orangeman and a Protestant and a
loyalist, and what I’ve always said about Home Rule and always will say
is this:--We’ll not have it and to Hell with the rebels. But I’m telling
you now I’d rather you had them, papist and rebel and all as you are,
than see them swept off that way by the police. And what’s more, I’m
not the only one says that. The Colonel was talking to me after he
heard what happened, and what he said was this--‘The Government of this
country,’ said he, meaning the police, ‘is a disgrace to civilization.’”
“Give me your hand, James McNiece,” said Gallaher. “Let me shake your
hand to show there’s no ill feeling about the way I bid against you at
the sale to-day.”
McNiece laid down the glass of whisky which he was raising to his lips
and stretched out his hand. Gallaher grasped it and held it.
“Tell me this now, James McNiece,” he said, “for it’s what I was never
sure of--How many was there behind that hay?”
McNiece looked round him carefully and made sure that no third person
could hear him. Neglecting no precaution he sank his voice to a whisper.
“Twenty rifles,” he said, “of the latest pattern, the same as the
soldiers use, and four hundred rounds of ball cartridge.”
“Gosh,” said Gallaher, “but we’d have done great work with them. Either
your lads or mine, James McNiece, would have done great work with them.
But, sure, what’s the use of talking? The police has them now.”
“Damn the police,” said James McNiece.