Motor-cars are even yet far from common in the west of Ireland. They are
not, for instance, used in elections as they are in England. There
very seldom are elections in the west of Ireland; but even if these
entertainments were, as frequent as elsewhere motor-cars would not be
used in them. This is partly because the Irish voter is recognised
as incorruptible, not the kind of man who would allow his vote to be
influenced by a ride in an unaccustomed vehicle; partly because the
west of Ireland candidate for Parliament is not rich enough to keep a
motor-car himself, and has no friends or supporters who could lend him
anything more expensive than a horse. Therefore motor drives are an
unknown luxury to most Connacht men. Thady Gallagher, though he was
a newspaper editor, had never travelled even in the side car of a
motor-cycle. When Mr. Billing made it clear that he meant to go to the
General’s birth-place in his large car everybody felt slightly envious
of Gallagher, and Doyle wished that he had not refused to join the
expedition. Gallagher himself was not elated by his good fortune. He was
embarrassed and depressed. He cast an appealing glance at Doyle.
“What am I to do, at all?” he said. “What am I to say to him when——?”
“If you’ve any sense,” said Doyle, “you’ll take a good long drive now
you have the chance. He doesn’t know the way. What’s to hinder you from
taking him round every road within ten miles of the town?”
But the prospect did not cheer Gallagher. He tried to grasp Dr.
O’Grady’s arm as he passed him. But the doctor shook him off
impatiently. He even attempted an appeal to Major Kent, quite vainly.
The Major was still smarting under the rhetorical denunciation of
landlords. He would not at that moment have gone a step out of his way
to rescue Gallagher from drowning.
The moment the motor-car was out of sight Major Kent and Doyle turned
hotly on Dr. O’Grady.
“What the devil do you mean, O’Grady,” said the Major, “by talking in
this absurd way? You know perfectly well——”
Doyle spoke at the same time.
“It’s a curious thing, so it is, doctor,” he said. “It’s a curious thing
that you’d be letting me in for £5 when you know the loss I’m in on
account of you already. I’d have thought——”
Dr. O’Grady interrupted them both.
“Suppose you agree to split the difference,” he said, “and say £32 10s.
for the filly. It’s a pity to see two men like you losing your tempers
over a bargain.”
“It’s not the bargain,” said Doyle, “that has my temper riz. It’s——”
“Doyle can have the filly if he likes,” said the Major, “at £32 10s. I
don’t want to go on wrangling about that. What I want to know——”
“I’ll take her,” said Doyle.
Major Kent smiled faintly. He was getting out of what threatened to be
a very bad bargain with an actual gain of £2 10s. He began to recover
command of his temper. Doyle also smiled. He believed that he was buying
for £32 10s. an animal for which Major Kent had paid £40 three days
before. He felt kindly disposed towards Dr. O’Grady, who had put the
chance of such a bargain in his way.
“Now, Major,” said the doctor, “you trot along to my house while I speak
a word or two to Doyle. I’ll be round with you in about ten minutes, and
give you some tea.”
“But about that General?” said the Major, “I’d rather like to know——”
He still wanted to know about General John Regan. But the tone in which
he asked for information had changed. He no longer seemed to threaten.
“I’ll explain all that to you if you’ll only do as I tell you,” said Dr.
O’Grady. “At present I can’t because I’m going to explain it to Doyle.”
“Why can’t you explain it to both of us at once?” said the Major. “That
is to say if there is any explanation of the way you’ve been going on.”
“There are two explanations,” said Dr. O’Grady, “one for you and one
for Doyle. I can’t give them both at once, because they’re different. I
should have thought you’d have seen that for yourself.”
“I don’t see how there can be two explanations,” said the Major, “not
two true ones. But of course they’re neither of them that.”
“They’re both quite true,” said Dr. O’Grady, “but they’re different,
of course, because you and Doyle look at everything from such different
points of view. Now do trot along, Major, and don’t interrupt me any
more. That American may be back at any moment. I don’t believe Gallagher
will be able to keep him in play for very long.”
He took Major Kent by the shoulders as he spoke and pushed him some
little way along the street. Then he returned to Doyle.
“Now then, Doyle,” he said, “you’ve done pretty well over that filly.
Strictly speaking, you owe me £7 10s. But I’m not going to say a word
about that.”
“Seeing that you owe me £60,” said Doyle, “it’ll maybe be as well for
you not.”
“What I do want to talk about,” said Dr. O’Grady, “is General John
Regan.”
“If you tell me who he was,” said Doyle, “I’ll be content.”
“I don’t see that it matters in the least to you who he was. Look here
now, Doyle. You’re a business man, and among other things you sell
whisky. Now suppose someone was to walk into your hotel and tell you to
forward ten dozen bottles of whisky—the best you had—to his aunt,
and supposing that he told his aunt’s name was Regan, would you go
questioning and cross-questioning every man you met as to whether there
really was an old lady called Miss Regan at the address he gave you?”
“I would not,” said Doyle. “So long as I got my money I wouldn’t care
whether the fellow ever had an aunt, or what sort of a name there might
be to her if he had.”
“Well, this is exactly the same sort of case. Here’s a man who wants a
statue for a dead General, and is perfectly willing to pay for it.
Why should you bother your head about who the statue is supposed to
represent? £100 is £100, I suppose, even if there never was a Regan in
the world; and there have been, plenty of them.”
“I see that,” said Doyle. “I see that, now you put it to me. And I don’t
deny but there’s a lot in what you say. But what I don’t see is this:
I’d make something out of the whisky for the gentleman’s aunt, but I
don’t understand how I’m to make a penny out of the statue.”
“You’ll be treasurer of the fund,” said Dr. O’Grady, “and I needn’t tell
you that in all these cases the treasurer—well, there might be a little
balance in hand at the end. There often is. Nobody ever inquires about
those balances. If the treasurers are fools they lie in the banks and
nobody ever gets any good of them. But you’re not a fool, Doyle.”
“I am not; and of course, there has been balances of the kind you speak
of before now. I wouldn’t say but—looking at the matter in that way—and
besides there’d be a commission from the fellow that got the contract
for the statue. And with regard to the £5 that my name’s down for——”
“Come now, Doyle. Don’t pretend to be stupider than you are. You know
perfectly well that every public fund has to be started by somebody with
a respectable looking subscription. I put it to you now as a business
man, did you ever hear of a case in which a subscription of that kind
was actually paid? It appears in the published list and it encourages
other people, but——”
“Say no more, doctor,” said Doyle. “Say no more.”
“I shall count on you then, Doyle, to help me in every way you possibly
can. It’s all for your own good. And you won’t be doing anybody any
harm.”
“There’s just one thing more,” said Doyle.
“Out with it. And be as quick as you can. I’ve still got to soothe the
Major’s scruples.”
“If you don’t mind my asking the question,” said Doyle, “what are you
going to make out of it yourself?”
“That’s a delicate point. I might tell you I’m going into the business
for the fun of the thing; but you wouldn’t believe that.”
“I would not,” said Doyle, winking slowly.
“I was afraid you wouldn’t. It’s true, as it happens. That’s just
exactly why I am running this statue. It offers me a little excitement
and variety. But as you won’t believe it I’ll have to make up some sort
of a lie that you will believe. I owe you about £60, don’t I?”
“You do, doctor, but I’d be the last man in Ireland to press you for the
money if——”
“Very well. If I put £20 into your pocket over this statue, in addition
to the £7 10s. you’re making on the filly, I’ll expect you to stop
talking about what I owe you for the next six months. You see some sense
in that, don’t you?”
“I do.”
“And it satisfies you as a reason for my taking all the trouble that I’m
going to take.”
“It does, of course. Why wouldn’t it?”
“Very well. Believe it. But if the matter ever comes up again you’ll
remember, Doyle, that I offered you the truth and you wouldn’t have it.
I didn’t attempt to impose on you with that lie until you insisted that
I should.”
Doyle grinned. He did not for a moment believe that Dr. O’Grady was
going to give himself a great deal of trouble in the matter of General
John Regan’s statue without gaining something by it. But he admired the
way in which the doctor, even when apparently cornered, succeeded in
keeping up appearances.
“If Gallagher gets tangled up in any difficulty,” said Dr. O’Grady, as
he said good-bye to Doyle, “send him straight round to me. Don’t you
attempt to extricate him or you’ll make matters worse. I shall be at
home for the next two hours. It will take me that time at least to talk
sense into the Major.”
When he got back to his own house Dr. O’Grady found his friend in a
state of badly repressed impatience.
“That seems to have been a pretty long explanation which you gave to
Doyle,” said the Major. “I hope mine will turn out to be a bit shorter.”
“That,” said Dr. O’Grady, “will entirely depend on yourself, Major.
If you were a really intelligent man no explanation whatever would be
necessary. You’d grasp the situation for yourself. If you were even
fairly intelligent a short explanation would be quite sufficient. If,
as I fear, you are downright stupid I may have to spend an hour or two
talking to you.”
“I don’t see the slightest necessity for that,” said the Major. “You’ve
only got to give a simple answer to a perfectly plain question. Who was
General John Regan? You answer that, and no further explanation will be
necessary.”
“I’m afraid it will,” said Dr. O’Grady. “Even if I tell you all I know
about the General you’ll still want to heckle me and generally upset my
plans.”
“No, I won’t, O’Grady. I promise you I won’t. Just tell me all you know
about this General and I won’t say another word.”
“Very well,” said Dr. O’Grady. “I don’t know anything at all about the
General. I never heard of him in my life until to-day.”
Major Kent gasped. Then he grew suddenly red in the face. Then he
spluttered explosively. Then he burst into violent speech.
“And what the devil do you mean, O’Grady, by ——? I’m hanged if I ever
heard of such——”
“There you are,” said Dr. O’Grady. “I knew you wouldn’t be satisfied.
I’ve told you all I know about the General, and so far from saying
nothing more, you begin to curse in the most frightful way.”
“That’s all very well,” said the Major, “but if there’s no such person
as that General——”
“I didn’t say that. I said I knew nothing about him. I’m a well educated
man, Major, far better educated than you are. But there are thousands
and thousands of quite eminent people still alive whose names I’ve never
heard, and when it comes to dead people there are probably millions,
scattered up and down through history books, whom I know nothing about.
They may all be quite famous in their own localities and may thoroughly
deserve statues. It’s not their fault that I know nothing about them.”
“But we don’t any of us know anything about this General. I don’t. Doyle
doesn’t. You don’t. Why on earth should we put up a statue to him?”
“Why shouldn’t we allow that American—Billing or whatever his name is—to
put up a statue if he likes? He wants to. Why shouldn’t he?”
“Why should he put it up here?” said the Major. “What brings him to
Ballymoy?”
“I expect,” said Dr. O’Grady—“mind, I don’t know for certain—but I
expect that he’s come to the wrong place, mixed up Ballymoy with some
other town, with the town in which Regan was really born. This General
of his was evidently a pretty big pot in his way, and if he had been
born in Ballymoy some of us would have heard of him.”
“In that case,” said the Major, “we ought to tell Billing of his
mistake.”
“Certainly not. In the first place that would be a very unkind thing to
do. Nobody likes being told of their mistakes, especially when they’re
as full of bounce and self-confidence as this fellow Billing. It’s
not right to be maliciously and wantonly unkind, Major, even to dumb
animals; and I can’t imagine anything more cruel than to tell Billing
that he’s made a mistake. In the next place, why on earth should we
miss the chance of getting a statue in Ballymoy? We haven’t got one
at present, and a good statue—we’ll get quite a respectable one for
Billing’s £100, even if we don’t subscribe a penny ourselves—will be a
great ornament to the town. You may not care for statues, Major, but all
really cultivated people love them. Look at Dublin! It’s a city with two
universities in it, and the consequence is that it’s simply spotted all
over with statues. Look at ancient Athens, the most cultured city the
world has ever seen. The number of statues the Athenians had would
surprise you. Why shouldn’t we have one? It’ll do us all good.”
“I call it a fraud,” said the Major. “It’s getting money out of this
fool of an American under false pretences. If this General of his wasn’t
born here——”
“Now do you suppose, Major, that the General himself, the original John
Regan, cares a pin where his statue is?”
“Of course he doesn’t. The one thing we do know about him is that he’s
dead. Why should he care?”
“Quite so. Then there’s no fraud so far as he’s concerned.”
“I wasn’t talking about him. I was talking about the American.”
“I’m just coming to him. Billing wants a statue to the General. He wants
it so much that he’s prepared to pay £100 for it. He also believes that
the General was born here. I think myself that he’s mistaken about that;
but there’s no doubt he believes it. He’ll be quite satisfied if we have
the statue here. If we don’t he’ll have to go to a lot of trouble and
expense looking up another birthplace for the General. When he finds one
the people there may not be as civil and obliging as we are. Or they may
have as many statues as they want already. I cannot for the life of me
see that we’re committing any kind of fraud when we’re saving Billing a
lot of expense, possibly a great disappointment, and allowing him to do
exactly what he wants.”
Major Kent sighed hopelessly.
“It’s no use arguing with you,” he said, “but you’ll get us all into
trouble before you’ve done. You’re absolutely certain to be found out.”
“Now you’re beginning to talk sense,” said Dr. O’Grady. “There is a
certain risk of being found out. I don’t deny that. What we have to do
is to minimise it as far as possible. We must take care not to commit
ourselves to any statement about the General’s public career until we’ve
found out all we can about him. I intend to write to Dublin to-night for
every book there is about Bolivia, which is the country he liberated.
In the meanwhile we’re fairly safe in working up any kind of local
tradition we can think of. If that sort of thing is well done there’s
practically no risk of discovery. Even if the stories don’t exactly fit
in with what’s known about the General’s later life, it doesn’t matter.
The things that are told about the boyhood of great men are all invented
afterwards. Nobody expects them to be true; but biographers have to put
them in to satisfy the curiosity of the public. There must be a chapter
headed ‘Early Days,’ or ‘Home Life,’ or something of that kind in every
biography. That’s the stuff Billing expects us to supply in exchange
for the statue. At the same time men like Gallagher and Doyle are
appallingly stupid, and I can’t say you’re exactly brilliant, Major. Any
of you may, in an unguarded moment——”
“I shan’t,” said the Major, “because I’m going straight home and don’t
mean to leave the house again till this whole business is over.”
“I wish that were possible,” said Dr. O’Grady. “I should be much easier
in my mind if you weren’t here at all. But unfortunately we must have
you. You give an air of solid respectability to the proceedings.
You inspire confidence. We can’t do without you. I’ll get Gregg,
the District Inspector, dragged into it too, and Ford, the Resident
Magistrate, if I can.”
“You won’t get him. He has too much sense.”
“I’ll get his wife anyway. She loves a fuss of any kind.”
“Some of them will give you away,” said the Major. “You’ll be found
out.”
“If Gallagher gets through this afternoon,” said Dr. O’Grady, “I shall
feel pretty safe. I wish I hadn’t been obliged to send Gallagher off
alone with Billing. Poor Thady is such an ass. But what could I do? I
couldn’t go myself because I had to explain the situation to you and
Doyle. I shall feel deeply thankful when Thady is safely home again.”
“By the way,” said the Major, “what was the explanation that you gave to
Doyle? It was different from my one I know. I’d rather like to hear it.”
“Poor Doyle!” said Dr. O’Grady. “Do you know I felt quite sorry for him
about that filly. He probably won’t find out what’s wrong with her for
about a fortnight or three weeks. He’ll be so busy over this General
John Regan business that he won’t have time to do anything with her. But
when he does find out——”
“He’ll not be the first man in Ireland,” said the Major, “who’s been let
in over a horse, and I don’t pity him.”
“I do,” said Dr. O’Grady, “I pitied you, Major, when you were stuck and
I helped you to get out I don’t see why I shouldn’t pity Doyle too.”
“How do you mean to get him out?” said the Major. “Perhaps you intend to
palm off that filly on your American.”
“Not at all,” said Dr. O’Grady. “My idea is to get Doyle’s money back
for him out of the statue.”
The Major thought this statement over and gradually came to suspect that
O’Grady contemplated some dishonourable use of public money. He was just
beginning to make a violent protest when the door of the room in which
they were sitting opened, and Gallagher came in.
“Doctor,” he said, “will you oblige me by coming over to the hotel at
once and pacifying the American gentleman?”
“I thought as much,” said Dr. O’Grady, jumping up. “You’ve muddled
things somehow, Thady.”
“I did the best I could,” said Gallagher, “but he wouldn’t rest content
with young Kerrigan’s wife.”
“Good heavens!” said Dr. O’Grady, “what on earth have you said? Young
Kerrigan hasn’t got a wife.”
“Sure I know that. But what was I to do? What I said was for the best.
But anyway you’d better come round to the hotel, till you see for
yourself the way we’re in.”
“Come along, Major,” said Dr. O’Grady. “You’ll enjoy watching us get out
of this entanglement, whatever it is.”
“I’m not going with you,” said the Major. “I don’t see any fun in
standing still and listening to you telling lies to that American. It’s
not my idea of spending a pleasant afternoon.”
“Come along,” said Dr. O’Grady, taking him by the arm. “I may want you.
I can’t tell yet whether I shall or not, for I don’t know yet what’s
happened. But I may.”
The Major hung back.
“I’m not going,” he said.
“If you don’t,” said Dr. O’Grady in a whisper, “I’ll tell Doyle about
the filly, all about her, and as you haven’t got the money for her
yet—well, you know what Doyle is. He’s not the kind of man I’d care to
trust very far when he finds out that—Oh, do come on.”
It may have been this threat which overcame Major Kent’s reluctance. It
may have been a natural curiosity to find out what trouble Gallagher had
got into with Mr. Billing: It may simply have been Dr. O’Grady’s force
of character which vanquished him. He allowed himself to be led away.