“Let you speak out,” said Doyle, “and if so be that you’re not asking us to pay up——”
“I think we may take it for granted, gentlemen,” said Dr. O’Grady, “that
if we produce a creditable statue for the Lord-Lieutenant to unveil and
give him a really gratifying illuminated address——”
“The statue and the illuminated address would be all right,” said Doyle,
“if there was any way of paying for them.”
“And a bouquet,” said Dr. O’Grady; “and a good luncheon. If we do all
that and make ourselves generally agreeable by means of Mary Ellen and
in other ways the Lord-Lieutenant couldn’t very well refuse to give us a
grant of Government money to build a pier.”
“It’s likely he’d give it,” said Father McCormack, “it’s likely enough
that he’d give it—if we——”
“He couldn’t well not,” said Doyle, “after us giving him a lunch and
all.”
“If so be,” said Gallagher, “that he was to refuse at the latter end
we’d have questions asked about him in Parliament; and believe you me
that’s what he wouldn’t like. Them fellows is terrible afraid of the
Irish Members. And they’ve a good right to be, for devil the finer set
of men you’d see anywhere than what they are. There isn’t a thing
goes wrong in the country but they’re ready to torment the life out of
whoever might be responsible for the man that did it.”
“Very well,” said Dr. O’Grady. “Now do we want a pier?”
“We want the money,” said Doyle.
“I don’t know,” said Father McCormack, “could we get the money without
we’d build a pier when we’d got it.”
“My point is,” said Dr. O’Grady, “that the pier itself, the actual stone
structure sticking out into the sea, being no particular use to any one
once it’s built——”
“It’d be a public nuisance,” said the Major.
“We can do very well with an inferior kind of pier,” said Dr. O’Grady.
“What I mean to say is we might spend a little less than we’re actually
given.”
“What about the inspector they’d send down?” said Doyle.
“Them inspectors,” said Gallagher, “is as thick about the country as
fleas on a dog. Hardly ever a man would turn round without he’d have one
of them asking him what he was doing it for.”
For once Gallagher had spoken in a way that was acceptable to the other
members of the committee. There was a general murmur of assent. Everyone
present was more or less conscious of the enormous numbers of inspectors
in Ireland. Even Major Kent, who had been in a bad temper all along,
brightened up a little.
“I was reading a paper the other day,” he said, “that 80 per cent, of
the adult population of Leinster, Munster and Connacht, were paid by the
Government to teach the other people how to get their livings, and to
see that they did what they were told. That included schoolmasters.”
“I shouldn’t wonder now,” said Father McCormack, “that those figures
would be about right.”
“It was only the week before last,” said Doyle, “that there was a
man stopping in my hotel, a man that looked as if he was earning a
comfortable salary, and he——”
Doyle spoke in the tone of a man who is going to tell a long and
leisurely story. Dr. O’Grady, who had heard the story before,
interrupted him.
“Of course we’d have to talk to the inspector when he comes,” he said.
“You’d do that, O’Grady,” said the Major. “You’d talk to a bench of
bishops.”
“I’m not sure,” said Father McCormack, “that I quite see what the
doctor’s getting at.”
“It’s simple enough,” said Dr. O’Grady, “Suppose he offers us £500 for a
pier—he can’t well make it less——”
“It’ll be more,” said Doyle optimistically. “It’ll be nearer a thousand
pounds.”
“Say £500,” said Dr. O’Grady. “What I propose is that we spend £400 on a
pier and use the other hundred to pay for the statue and the rest of the
things we have to get.”
“Bedamn,” said Doyle, “but that’s great. That’s the best ever I heard.”
Major Kent rose to his feet. He was very red in the face, and there was
a look of rigid determination in his eyes.
“I may as well tell you at once,” he said, “that I’ll have nothing to do
with any such plan.”
“Why not?” said Dr. O’Grady.
“Because I’m an honest man. I raised no particular objection when you
merely proposed to make a fool of me and everybody else concerned——”
“You’ve done very little else except raise objections,” said Dr.
O’Grady.
“—But when it comes to a deliberate act of dishonesty———”
“That’s a hard word, so it is,” said Doyle.
“It’s not a bit too hard,” said the Major, “and I say it again.
Dishonesty. I won’t have anything to do——”
“The Major’s right,” said Father McCormack, “there’s no denying it, the
Major’s right.”
“He would be right,” said Dr. O’Grady, “he’d be perfectly right if there
were any dishonesty about the matter. I hope it isn’t necessary for me
to say that if I thought the plan a dishonest one I’d be the last man in
Ireland to propose it.”
“Of course, of course,” said Father McCormack.
“The doctor wouldn’t do the like,” said Doyle.
“Sure we all know that,” said Father McCormack, “but the objection that
the Major has raised——”
“It’s all very well talking,” said the Major. “But talking won’t alter
facts. It is dishonest to get a grant of money for one purpose and use
it for something totally different.”
“I’m not quite sure,” said Dr. O’Grady, “whether you quite understand
the philosophy of modern charity, Major.”
“I understand the ten commandments,” said the Major, “and that’s enough
for me.”
“Nobody’s saying a word against the ten commandments,” said Dr. O’Grady.
“You’re going to do something against one of them,” said the Major, “and
that’s worse. If you merely said things against them I shouldn’t mind.
We all know that you’d say anything.”
“You’re begging the question, Major, you really are. Now listen to me.
What’s the ordinary recognised way of raising large sums of money for
charitable objects? Some kind of bazaar, isn’t it?”
“It is,” said Father McCormack. “There’s hardly ever a winter but
there’s one or two of them up in Dublin for hospitals or the like.”
“Very well,” said Dr. O’Grady. “What happens when a bazaar is held?”
“It doesn’t matter to us what happens,” said the Major. “We’re not
holding one.”
“Let the doctor speak,” said Doyle.
“What happens is this,” said Dr. O’Grady. “A large sum of money, very
often an enormous sum, is spent on getting up switch-back railways,
and Alpine panoramas, and underground rivers, and old English villages.
Those things are absolutely necessary to the success of the show. They
cost thousands of pounds sometimes. Now, who pays for them? The charity
pays, and is jolly glad to. The price of them is deducted from the
gross receipts and the balance is handed over to the hospital. Is there
anything dishonest about that?”
“There is not, of course,” said Father McCormack. “It’s always done.”
“Wouldn’t a bishop do it? A bishop of any church?”
“Lots of them do,” said Father McCormack.
“Well, if a bishop would do it, it can’t be dishonest,” said Dr.
O’Grady. “You’ll agree to that, I suppose, Major? You won’t want to
accuse the hierarchy of Ireland, Protestant and Roman Catholics, of
flying in the face of the ten commandments.”
The Major had sat down again. While Dr. O’Grady was speaking he turned
his chair half round and stared out of the window. He wished to convey
the impression that he was not listening to a word that was said. When
Dr. O’Grady appealed to him directly he turned round again and answered:
“It’s dishonest to take money given for one purpose and use it for
another,” he said.
“I’m with you there, Major,” said Father McCormack. “I’m with you
there.”
“Are you prepared,” said Dr. O’Grady, “to go back on the whole theory of
necessary expenses? Would you refuse to allow the unfortunate secretary
of a charitable society to refund himself for the postage stamps he uses
in sending out his appeals?”
“Secretaries have nothing to do with us,” said the Major. “This is a
simple question of right and wrong.”
“You haven’t quite caught my point yet,” said Dr. O’Grady patiently.
“What I’m trying to explain to you is this: we’re in exactly the same
position as the charity that’s getting up a bazaar. In order to make the
money we want for the good of the town—the good of the town, mind you,
Major—that’s a worthy object.”
“A pier wouldn’t be any good if you had it,” said the Major.
“A lot of money would be spent building it,” said Dr. O’Grady, “and
that would do us all good. But in order to get a pier we must incur
some expense. We shan’t get the pier unless we succeed in enticing a
Lord-Lieutenant down here.”
“You will not,” said Doyle. “It’s waste of time writing letters to those
fellows, for they don’t read them.”
“And we can’t get the Lord-Lieutenant down unless we have a statue for
him to unveil,” said Dr. O’Grady.
“He wouldn’t come without he had something of the sort,” said Father
McCormack. “That’s sure.”
“Therefore,” said Dr. O’Grady, “the statue is a necessary part of our
expenses in getting the pier. So is the illuminated address. So is the
bouquet. And we’re just as well entitled to charge what they all cost us
against the money we succeed in making, as the secretary of a charitable
bazaar is to debit his gross earnings with the hire of the hall in which
the show is held.”
“Now that you put it in that way,” said Father McCormack, “I can see
well that there’s something in what you say.”
“Honesty and dishonesty are two different things,” said the Major.
“Don’t keep on making those bald and senseless assertions,” said Dr.
O’Grady. “Even an income tax collector, and he’s the most sceptical kind
of man there is with regard to assertions about money—but even he allows
his victims to deduct the expenses necessarily incurred in making their
incomes from the gross amount which they return to him. You can’t want
to go behind the income tax authorities, Major.”
“It’s all very well arguing,” said the Major, “and I can’t answer you
when you confuse things in the way you do. But I know perfectly well
that it isn’t right——”
“Well do what the doctor says, anyway,” said Doyle. “Doesn’t the
Government rob the whole of us every day more than ever we’ll be able to
rob it?”
“There’s something in that, too,” said Father McCormack.
Curiously enough Doyle’s statement produced far more effect on Major
Kent’s mind than the elaborate arguments of Dr. O’Grady. He was
accustomed to gnash his teeth over the burden of taxation laid upon him.
He had often, in private conversation, described governments, especially
Liberal Governments, as bandits and thieves.
“We are robbed,” he said. “I admit that. What with the extra tax on
unearned income and the insurance of servants against accidents, and
this infernal new unemployment insurance, and the death duties, and——”
“There was a report of the Financial Relations Commission,” said
Gallagher, “which presented a case on behalf of Ireland that showed——”
“Don’t drag in politics, Thady,” said Dr. O’Grady. “The Major admits
that he’s robbed. That ought to be enough for you. Now, Major, if you
were attacked by a highwayman——”
“I didn’t say the Government was a highwayman,” said the Major.
“You said it was a robber. Didn’t he, Father Mc-Cormack?”
“He said it had him robbed,” said Father McCormack, with the air of a
man who is carefully making a fine distinction.
“That’s exactly the same thing. Now, Major, if a robber stole your
money, wouldn’t you take the first chance you could of getting it back?
You know you would. We all would. And would you call that dishonesty?
You would not. Now we’re offering you the chance of getting something
back, a mere trifle, but still something, out of a Government which, as
you admit, has robbed you. Why on earth do you start making a fuss?”
“I can’t argue with you, O’Grady,” said the Major, “but you’re wrong.”
“What’s the good of talking?” said Doyle. “We’ll do what the doctor
says.”
“Your nephew won’t be able to get that advance he asked for,” said Dr.
O’Grady.
“Let him not,” said Doyle. “I don’t pity him. He’ll get his money in the
end.”
“Gentlemen,” said Father McCormack, “is it your will that the plan now
laid before the meeting by Dr. O’Grady, be adopted?”
“It is,” said Gallagher.
“What else is there for us to do?” said Doyle.
“You may take me as dissenting,” said the Major.
“I’ll make a note of that in the minutes,” said Dr. O’Grady, “and then
your conscience will be perfectly clear, no matter what happens.”
“Well, gentlemen,” said Father McCormack, “I suppose that completes our
arrangements for to-day. When shall we have our next meeting?” He rose
to his feet as he spoke. Everyone else rose too. Major Kent put on his
hat and walked towards the door. When he reached it he turned.
“I shan’t come to any more meetings,” he said.
“I don’t think there’s any necessity to hold another meeting,” said Dr.
O’Grady, “until after the Lord-Lieutenant has left and the time comes
for squaring up things. I shall be so busy between this and the day of
his visit that I shan’t have time to attend meetings.”
“Very well,” said Father McCormack. “I shall be all the better pleased.”
He left the room and followed Major Kent down the stairs.
“Thady,” said Doyle, “do you go down to the bar, and I’ll be with you in
a minute. I’ve a word to say to the doctor.”
“I could do with a sup of porter after all that talk,” said Gallagher,
as he left the room.
“Doctor,” said Doyle, “if things turn out the way we hope——”.
“I suppose you’re knocking a commission out of that nephew of yours for
selling his statue for him?”
“Twenty-five per pent, is the amount agreed on. It isn’t everyone I’d
tell, but I’ve confidence in you, doctor.”
“And if we get £500 for the pier?”
“A middling good pier,” said Doyle, “as good a pier as anyone’d have a
right to expect in a place like this, might be built for £300.”
“That’ll put £120 into your pocket, Doyle, not counting anything you may
make on the luncheons!”
“What I was meaning to say, doctor, is, that it would be a satisfaction
to me if there was something coming to yourself. You deserve it.”
“Thank you, Doyle; but I’m not in this business to make money.”
“It would be well,” said Doyle with a sigh, “if you’d make a little more
now and again.”
“If you’re going to start about that wretched bill I owe you——”
“I am not then. Nor I won’t mention it to you until such time as you
might be able to pay it. If so be that things turn out the way you say I
shouldn’t care——”
“If you keep Gallagher waiting too long for his drink,” said Dr.
O’Grady, “he’ll start breaking things. He must be uncommonly thirsty
after all the speeches he made this afternoon.”
“That’s true,” said Doyle. “I’d maybe better go to him.”
Constable Moriarty stood just outside the door of the hotel. He saluted
Major Kent as he passed. He touched his hat respectfully to Father
McCormack. He saw Gallagher come downstairs and enter the bar. A few
minutes later he saw Dr. O’Grady. All traces of his usual smile vanished
from his face. He drew himself up stiffly, and his eyes expressed
something more than official severity. When Dr. O’Grady passed through
the door into the street, Moriarty confronted him.
“I’m glad to see,” said Dr. O’Grady, “that you’ve stopped grinning. It’s
quite time you did.”
“It’s not grins I’m talking about now,” said Moriarty. “It’s Mary
Ellen.”
“Nice little girl, isn’t she?”
“It’s a nice little girl you’ll make of her before you’ve done! What’s
this I’m after hearing about the way you have in mind for dressing her
up?”
“Do be reasonable, Moriarty! What’s the good of asking me what you’ve
heard? I can’t possibly know, for I wasn’t there when you heard it.”
“You know well what I heard.”
“Look here, Moriarty,” said Dr. O’Grady. “If you think I’m going to
stand here to be bullied by you in the public street you’re greatly
mistaken. Why don’t you go and patrol somewhere?”
“I’ll not have Mary Ellen play-acting before the Lord-Lieutenant, so now
you know, doctor.”
“There’s no play-acting to be done,” said Dr. O’Grady. “We haven’t even
had time to get up a pageant. I wish we had. You’d look splendid as
a Roman Emperor trampling on a conquered people. I’m not sure that I
wouldn’t get you up as an Assyrian bull. The expression of your face is
just right this minute.”
“Mary Ellen’s an orphan girl,” said Moriarty, “with no father to look
after her, and what’s more I’m thinking of marrying her myself. So it’s
as well for you to understand, doctor, that I’ll not have her character
took from her. It’s not the first time you’ve tried that same, but it
had better be the last.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Moriarty. There’s nobody
injuring the girl’s character except, maybe, yourself. Doyle tells me
you’re never out of the back-yard of the hotel.”
“You put it out that she was married to young Kerrigan.”
“That was Thady Gallagher,” said Dr. O’Grady, “and it didn’t do her a
bit of harm. Nobody except Mr. Billing believed it.”
“I don’t mind that so much now,” said Moriarty, “though I don’t deny I
was angry at the time, but what I won’t have is Mary Ellen dressed up to
be an ancient Irish colleen. It’s not respectful to the girl.”
“You told me the other day that you want the Lord-Lieutenant to make you
a sergeant. Did you mean that when you said it, or did you not?”
“It’s no way to make a sergeant of me to be dressing up Mary Ellen.”
“It’s far the best way. When the Lord-Lieutenant sees her and hears——”
“It’s not going to be done, anyway,” said Moriarty, “for I won’t have
it.”
“Listen to me now,” said Dr. O’Grady, “and you may take it that this is
my last word, for I haven’t time to waste talking to you. If I catch
you interfering with Mary Ellen in any way or setting the girl’s mind up
against the costume that Mrs. Gregg has designed for her, I’ll speak to
Mr. Gregg, and have you transferred to some different county altogether,
where you’ll never see Mary Ellen either in fancy dress or any other
way. What’s more I’ll represent your conduct to the Lord-Lieutenant, so
that you’ll never be made a sergeant as long as you live.”
These threats affected Moriarty. He had no doubt in his mind that Dr.
O’Grady could and would carry out the first of them. About the second he
was not quite so sure, but it remained a horrible possibility.
He saw that there was nothing to be done by opposing his will to a
powerful combination of private influence and official power. Without
speaking another word he turned and walked across the street to the
barrack. But his anger had by no means died away. He found Sergeant
Colgan asleep in the living-room. He woke him at once.
“I’ll be even with that doctor,” he said, “before I’ve done with him.”
“That’s threatening language,” said the sergeant, who was not pleased
at being wakened, “and it’s actionable; so you’d better mind yourself,
Moriarty. There’s many a better man than you has gone to jail for less
than that. I knew a Member of Parliament one time that got three weeks
for no more than saying that he’d like to see the people beating the
life out of a land grabber. What has the doctor been doing to you?”
“It’s about Mary Ellen.”
“Get out,” said the sergeant, “you and your Mary Ellen! It’s too fond
you are of running here and there after that same Mary Ellen.”
It was plain that no sympathy was to be expected from Sergeant Colgan.
Moriarty sat down on a chair in the corner and meditated on plans of
vengeance. The sergeant dropped off to sleep again.