The cornet is of all instruments in an ordinary band the one which
produces the most penetrating sounds. While young Kerrigan was
practising a new tune on it all the inhabitants of the town of Bally-moy
were able to hear him. He was aware of this and sorry for it. He did
not, indeed, pity his fellow-citizens. He would not have understood a
complaint made by a nervous person who found himself tortured by a long
series of efforts to get a note in the middle of a tune right. It would
have struck him as mere affectation if anyone had objected to hearing
the same tune with the same gasping wheeze in the middle of it played
over a hundred or a hundred and fifty times in one evening. Young
Kerrigan’s dislike of the necessary publicity of his practising was
similar to that which other artists feel when members of the public
break in and see their work in an incomplete condition. He liked his
music to be appreciated. He felt that acknowledgment of the stages by
which it came to its ultimate perfection was likely to diminish its
glory. But he had no place in which he could practise except the back
yard of his father’s house, and that, unfortunately, was in the very
middle of the town.
In order to get out of his difficulty young Kerrigan adopted the plan
of learning new tunes only in autumn and winter, when strong gales were
blowing. On a calm summer evening every note of the cornet, whether
right or wrong, was heard. Even the sounds which were not quite notes
but only painful grunts penetrated open windows and doors. But when
a storm was raging most of the notes were blown away, and only
occasionally, when there happened to be a lull, did anybody except young
Kerrigan himself hear anything. The plan worked out very satisfactorily.
Amid the rush and clatter of a tempest people took no notice of such
stray wailings of the cornet as reached their ears. But, like many
excellent plans, this one was liable to break down in emergencies. It
broke down badly when Dr. O’Grady insisted that the band should learn
“Rule Britannia” in the middle of August.
Young Kerrigan readily got a grip on the tune. He could whistle it and
hum it quite correctly after he had heard it six or seven times. But
to reproduce it on the cornet required practise, and the weather was
remarkably calm and fine. Kerrigan, in spite of his dislike of being
heard, was obliged to devote the evening to it after the doctor left
him. Next morning he went at it again, beginning at about eleven
o’clock. He got on very well up to the point at which the words declare
that “Britons never, never, never shall be slaves.” The notes which went
to the “nevers” were particularly troublesome. He tried them slowly,
one by one, leaving a short interval between them. He tried them fast,
running them into each other. He tried beginning the tune again after
each mistake, in hope of getting over his difficulty, as a bicyclist
sometimes gets up a hill, by running. He was a man of patient
disposition, and he was still working hard at one o’clock.
Mr. Thaddeus Gallagher spent the morning transcribing shorthand notes
in his office. There had been a singularly interesting meeting of
the County Council the day before in the neighbouring town of Dunbeg.
Gallagher had written down every word of an acrimonious debate. He
wanted to publish a verbatim report of it. As a rule noise of any kind
affected him very little, and at first he took no notice whatever
of young Kerrigan’s cornet. But the continual repetition of the tune
gradually beat it into his brain. He found his pencil moving across the
paper in a series of short staccato bounds every time young Kerrigan got
to “Never, never, never.” He became by degrees vaguely uneasy. The tune
was one which he had certainly heard before. He could not remember where
he had heard it. He could not remember what it was. But he became more
and more sure that it was connected in his mind with some unpleasant
associations. At last he found it impossible to go on with his work. The
most passionate invective of the most furious of the County Councillors
failed to move him to any interest. He glanced at his watch. It was just
one o’clock. The meeting of the Reception Committee was to take place
at half-past one. Gallagher felt that he had just time to investigate
thoroughly the disagreeable tune. He got up and left his office.
Constable Moriarty was standing at the door of the barrack listening to
young Kerrigan. Being himself a musician, he appreciated the difficulty
of playing “Rule Britannia” on a cornet, and enjoyed hearing young
Kerrigan’s efforts. When he saw Gallagher come out of his office he was
greatly pleased, and showed his feeling by grinning broadly. Gallagher
saw the grin, and his suspicion that the tune was an offensive one
deepened at once. He crossed the road.
“What’s that,” he said, “that young Kerrigan’s playing?”
“It’s a new tune,” said Moriarty, “and it’s hoped that the town band
will learn it.”
“Where did he get it?”
“I’m after hearing,” said Moriarty, “that it was the doctor taught it to
him. But I don’t know is that true. You can’t believe the half of what
you hear in this town.”
“What tune is it?”
“I don’t know that I could put a name to it this minute; but there’s
no need for you to be uneasy, Mr. Gallagher. It’s not what you think it
is.”
“I’m not thinking about it at all,” said Gallagher, very untruthfully.
“I’m glad of that,” said Moriarty. “I was afraid from the look of you as
you came out of the office that you might be thinking it was ‘God Save
the King.’ But it’s not.”
“I was thinking no such thing, for young Kerrigan knows and the doctor
knows, and you know yourself, Constable Moriarty, that the people of
this town is all good Nationalists, and that if the tune you’re after
naming was to be played in the streets——”
“It’s not it, anyway,” said Moriarty, “so you may make your mind easy.”
Gallagher’s mind was very far from being easy, but he saw that he was
not likely to get any more information out of Constable Moriarty. He
crossed the road and entered the hotel. Doyle was in the commercial room
trying to induce Mary Ellen to sweep the floor. It was in the commercial
room that the meeting of the Committee was to be held that afternoon.
Doyle wanted some, if not all, of the dirt removed from the floor
beforehand.
“What tune’s that young Kerrigan’s playing?” said Gallagher.
“I don’t know,” said Doyle. “I’ve more to do than to be listening to
tunes. Mary Ellen, can you not see that there’s three corks out of
porter bottles underneath the table? Will you take them out of it now,
like a good girl?”
“I’m not satisfied in my mind about that tune,” said Gallagher.
“What harm is there in it?”
“I don’t know yet is there any harm, but I don’t like it, and I’d be
glad if I knew what tune it is. I have it in my mind that it’s a tune
that ought not to be played.”
“Mary Ellen,” said Doyle, “what tune is it that young Kerrigan’s
playing?”
“How would I know?” said Mary Ellen.
“Well, put down that sweeping brush,” said Doyle. “For all the good
you’re doing with it you might as well never have taken it up. I never
seen such a girl. Put it down now and run across to Constable Moriarty,
who’s standing at the door of the barrack——”
“I’d be ashamed,” said Mary Ellen, “so I would.”
“If you’re not ashamed of the state this room’s in,” said Doyle, “it
would take more than Moriarty to shame you. Run along now, when you’re
bid, and ask him what tune it is that Kerrigan’s playing.”
Mary Ellen, who hoped that the interruption might put an end to the
sweeping once for all, left the room.
“If there’s one in the town that knows the tune,” said Doyle, “it’ll be
Moriarty. I’d say myself that he must know pretty near every tune there
is in the world.”
“He might tell her,” said Gallagher, “or he might not. I was talking to
him this minute and he wouldn’t tell me.”
“He’ll tell Mary Ellen,” said Doyle. “He’s always after that girl, and
it’s my belief he’ll tell her anything that she’d ask him. There’s some
that’s took that way. Foolishness I call it.”
“It’s the way he wouldn’t tell me when I asked him,” said Gallagher,
“that and the grin on his face when he saw me that has me sure that
there’s some insult intended to the people of this town with that tune.
It’s what I wouldn’t stand, and the doctor and the rest of them may make
their minds up to it. It’s what I won’t stand is to have tunes played
here that is against the political convictions of the people.”
“Who’d do the like?” said Doyle soothingly.
“What I say is this,” said Gallagher, “if there’s no reason to be
ashamed of the tune, let them say out boldly what tune it is. I have it
in the back of my mind that I’ve heard that tune before now, and it’s
not the kind of tune that decent men would be listening to.”
“Have sense, can’t you, Thady. There’s nobody wanting to annoy you.”
“There may not be,” said Gallagher, “but there’s more than one in this
town that’s the enemies of the Irish people and would be glad to see
the cup of freedom dashed from the lips of the men that have spent their
lives in the struggle for Home Rule and that has it now as good as got.”
“Have sense,” said Doyle, but he spoke without real energy or much
purpose. He had little hope that Gallagher, once embarked on a
peroration, would stop until he had used up all the words at his
command. He was quite right in his reading of his friend’s character.
Gallagher went on:
“It isn’t the declared enemies of the people that we’d be afraid of,”
he said. “We’ll meet them in the open field as we’ve always met them and
they’ll fly before the spectacle of a united people as they’ve always
fled, the tyrants of other days, the blood-sucking landlords——”
“God help the poor Major,” said Doyle.
“But the traitors within the camp,” said Gallagher, “the men that is
occupying positions in the gift of the people of Ireland, that’s taking
our pay, and at the same time plotting contrivances for the heaping of
insults on the dearest convictions of our hearts——”
Mary Ellen entered the room while Gallagher was speaking. Bewildered by
the splendour of his eloquence she stopped short just inside the door
and gazed at him with her mouth open. Doyle took advantage of a slight
hesitation in Gallagher’s oration to speak to her.
“What tune is it, Mary Ellen?” he said.
“I couldn’t rightly say,” said Mary Ellen.
“Didn’t I tell you,” said Gallagher, “that there was underhand work
going on?”
“What tune did Moriarty say it was?” said Doyle.
“He said it was a tune the doctor is after teaching young Kerrigan,”
said Mary Ellen.
“What did I tell you?” said Gallagher. “Maybe you’ll believe me now.”
“The best thing for you to do, Thady.” said Doyle, “if you’re dead set
on finding out about that tune is to go and ask young Kerrigan what it
is. The boy’s a decent boy, and he’ll tell you if you speak civil to
him.”
“I’ll do that same,” said Gallagher, “and if I discover——”
“You’d better be quick about it then,” said Doyle, “for the committee
is to meet at half after one and I wouldn’t like you’d miss the
proceedings.”
“Come along with me,” said Gallagher. “I wish you to hear the way I mean
to talk to young Kerrigan.”
Doyle did not want to listen to Gallagher browbeating young Kerrigan,
but he realised that he would save time and a long argument if he went
at once. He made a last appeal to Mary Ellen to collect at least the
corks which were on the floor. Then he went out with Gallagher. In the
porch of the hotel they met Major Kent who was a scrupulously punctual
man, on his way to the committee meeting.
“You’re a bit early, Major,” said Doyle. “But if you’ll step into the
commercial room you won’t have long to wait. Thady and I have to cross
the street on a matter of business but we’ll be back in less than five
minutes. The doctor might be here any time and I see Father McCormack
coming along from the presbytery.”
Doyle was unduly optimistic. He was not back in five minutes. He did
not, indeed, get back for nearly half an hour.
Kerrigan, very red in the face, and rather exhausted, was still
blowing vigorously into his cornet when Gallagher and Doyle entered the
back-yard. Gallagher went straight to business without wasting any time
on preliminary politeness.
“Will you stop that blasted noise,” he said.
Kerrigan took the cornet from his lips and gazed at Gallagher in extreme
surprise.
“Speak civil to the boy,” said Doyle.
“What tune is that?” said Gallagher.
“What Mr. Gallagher’s meaning to say,” said Doyle, “is that party tunes
is unsuitable to this locality where the people has always lived in
peace and harmony, Protestant and Catholic together, and respected one
another. That’s what Mr. Gallagher means, and if Constable Moriarty
didn’t annoy him it’s what he’d say.”
“It’s a tune the doctor taught me,” said young Kerrigan, “and it’s a
fine tune, so it is.”
“What’s the name of it?” said Gallagher.
“That,” said young Kerrigan, “is what I was meaning to ask the doctor
next time he happened to be passing but if you’re in a hurry to know,
Mr. Gallagher, you can ask him yourself. It’s likely you’ll be seeing
him before I do.”
Young Kerrigan’s words were perfectly civil; but there was a look in
his eyes which Gallagher did not like and the tone in which he spoke
suggested that he meant to be impudent.
“I’ll take no back talk from you,” said Gallagher. “What tune is it?”
“I don’t know what tune it is,” said Kerrigan.
“You’re a liar,” said Gallagher. “You know well what tune it is.”
“Speak civil now, Thady,” said Doyle, “speak civil to the boy.”
“I may be a liar,” said Kerrigan, “but it’s the truth I told you this
minute. And liar or no liar it’s the truth I’ll speak now, when I tell
you that I’m not near as damned a liar as yourself, Mr. Gallagher. So
there’s for you. What do you mean by telling the American gentleman that
I was married to Mary Ellen and her with twins? Was that a lie now or
was it not? Twins! Cock the like of that one up with twins! If I’m a
liar I’d tell more sensible lies than that.”
“Whisht, now, whisht,” said Doyle. “Sure if Mr. Gallagher said that,
isn’t the girl a cousin of his own, and hadn’t he the best right to say
it?”
“Come along out of this,” said Gallagher.
“The sooner you’re gone the better I’ll be pleased,” said Kerrigan.
“And let me tell you this, Mr. Kerrigan, junior. You’ll be sorry for
this day’s work for the longest day ever you live. When the League boys
hear, and they will hear, about the tune that you mean to play——”
“Come along now, Thady,” said Doyle. “Come along. You’ve enough said.
We’re late for the meeting of the committee already, and we’ll be later
yet if you don’t come on. You wouldn’t like to keep Father McCormack
waiting on you.”
“I’ve had enough of your committee,” said Gallagher. “What’s your statue
only foolishness?”
“Sure everybody knows that,” said Doyle.
“And what’s your Lord-Lieutenant only——”
“Come on, now,” said Doyle, “isn’t it for the benefit of the town we’re
doing it? And it’s yourself that’s always to the fore when there’s good
work to be done.”
“I will not go with you,” said Gallagher.
They had passed through Kerrigan’s shop and reached the street, when
Gallagher delivered this ultimatum. Doyle hesitated. He was already late
for the committee meeting. If he waited to coax Gallagher out of his bad
temper he might miss the meeting altogether. He looked at the door of
the hotel. Father McCormack was standing at it, waiting, perhaps, for
him and Gallagher.
“Come now, Thady,” he said, “have sense. Don’t you see Father McCormack
waiting for you?”
“I see him,” said Gallagher.
“And don’t you know well enough that you’ll have no luck if you go
against the clergy?”
The appeal was a strong one, and had he been in any ordinary temper
Gallagher would have yielded to it at once. But he was very
angry indeed, far too angry to be influenced by purely religious
considerations. He walked straight across the square to his office,
entered it, and slammed the door behind him. Doyle followed him as
far as the threshold. There he stopped and looked round. He saw Father
McCormack go into the hotel. A minute later Mrs. Gregg hurried down
the street and went into the hotel. Doyle sighed heavily and entered
Gallagher’s office. Difficult and unpleasant as his task was likely to
be, he felt that he must propitiate Thady Gallagher.
“Thady,” he said, “is there a drop of anything to drink in the place?”
“There is not,” said Gallagher, “nor I wouldn’t drink it if there was.”
This confirmed Doyle’s view of the extreme seriousness of the situation.
That Gallagher should be prepared to defy the clergy was bad enough.
That he should adopt an ascetic’s attitude towards drink was worse. But
Doyle did not quite believe that Gallagher meant what he said. He opened
a door at the far end of the office and whistled loudly. A small boy who
had been cleaning type in the printing-room, appeared, rubbing his inky
hands on his trousers.
“Michael Antony,” said Doyle, “will you step across to the hotel and
tell Mary Ellen to give you the bottle of whisky that she’ll find in the
cupboard in my own room? If you can’t find Mary Ellen—and it’s hardly
ever she is to be found when she’s wanted—you can fetch the bottle
yourself. If you don’t know the way to my room you ought to.”
Michael Antony, who was very well accustomed to errands of this kind,
went off at once. Doyle glanced at Gallagher, who appeared to be
absorbed in completing the transcription of his shorthand notes, the
task at which he had been interrupted in the morning by young Kerrigan’s
cornet playing. He seemed to be very busy. Doyle got up and left the
room, went into the kitchen which lay beyond the printing-room, and
returned with two tumblers and a jug of water. Gallagher looked up from
his writing for an instant. Doyle noticed with pleasure the expression
of violent anger was fading from his eyes. Michael Antony, who was a
brisk and willing boy, returned with a bottle rather more than half full
of whisky.
“Mary Ellen was upstairs along with a lady,” he said. “But I found the
bottle.”
“If you were three years older,” said Doyle, “I’d give you a drop for
your trouble. But it wouldn’t be good for you, Michael Antony, and your
mother wouldn’t be pleased if she heard you were taking it.”
“I have the pledge since Christmas, anyway,” said Michael Antony.
“Thady,” said Doyle, when the boy had left the room, “it’s a drink you
want to quench the rage that’s in you.”
Gallagher looked up from his papers. He did not say anything, but
Doyle understood exactly what he would have said if his pride had not
prevented him from speaking.
“The width of two fingers in the bottom of the tumbler,” said Doyle,
“with as much water on top of that as would leave you free to say that
you weren’t drinking it plain.”
The amount of water necessary to soothe Gallagher’s conscience was very
small. Doyle added it from the jug in driblets of about a teaspoonful
at a time. At the sound of the third splash Gallagher raised his hand.
Doyle laid down the jug at once. Gallagher, without looking up from his
papers, stretched out his left hand and felt about until he grasped the
tumbler. He raised it to his lips and took a mouthful of whisky.
“Thady,” said Doyle, “you’ve no great liking for Mr. Ford.”
“I have not,” said Gallagher. “Isn’t he always going against me at the
Petty Sessions, he and the old Major together, and treating me as if I
wasn’t a magistrate the same as the best of them?”
“He does that, and it’s a crying shame, so it is, that he’s allowed to;
but sure that’s the way things are in this country.”
Gallagher took another gulp of whisky and waited. Doyle said nothing
more. He appeared to have nothing more to say and to have mentioned Mr.
Ford’s name merely for the sake of making conversation. But Gallagher
wished to develop the subject.
“What about Mr. Ford?” he said, after a long silence.
“He’s terrible down on the erection of the statue to General John
Regan.”
“I’m that myself,” said Gallagher.
“Mr. Ford will be pleased when he hears it; for there’ll be no statue if
you set your face against it. It’ll be then that Mr. Ford will be proud
of himself. He’ll be saying all round the Country that it was him put a
stop to it.”
“It will not be him that put a stop to it.”
“It’s what he’ll say, anyway,” said Doyle.
Gallagher finished his whisky in two large gulps.
“Let him,” he said.
“Have another drop,” said Doyle. “It’s doing you good.”
Gallagher pushed his tumbler across the table. Doyle replenished it.
“I’d be sorry,” said Doyle, “if Mr. Ford was to be able to say he’d got
the better of you, Thady, in a matter of the kind.”
“It’ll not be me he’ll get the better of.”
“He’ll say it,” said Doyle, “and what’s more there’s them that will
believe it. For they’ll say, recollecting the speech you made on
Tuesday, that you were in favour of the statue, and that only for Mr.
Ford you’d have had it.”
“If I thought that——” said Gallagher.
“Come along over now to the committee,” said Doyle, “and we’ll have the
statue just in derision of him.”
“It isn’t the statue that I’m objecting to,” said Gallagher, “nor it
isn’t the notion of a new pier. You know that, Doyle.”
“I do, of course.”
“And if it’s the wish of the people of this locality that there should
be a statue——”
“It is the wish,” said Doyle. “Didn’t you say yourself that the people
was unanimous about it after the meeting in the market square?”
Gallagher rose from his chair and pushed his papers back on the table.
He crushed his soft hat down on the back of his head and turned to the
door.
“Come on,” he said.
“I knew well,” said Doyle, “that you’d do whatever was right in the
latter end. And as for the tune that was troubling you, it’s even
money that the band will never play it. Father McCormack was telling
me yesterday that the big drum’s broke on them on account of one of the
boys giving it a kind of a slit with the point of a knife. The band
will hardly ever be able to play that tune or any other tune when they
haven’t got a big drum.”