Disturbed Ireland | Page 4

It may be also mentioned, not out
of any squeamishness, but purely as a matter of fact, that in the

intervals of bringing in "arrumfuls" of "torrf" Lizzie folded tablecloths
for newcomers so as to hide the coffee-stains as much as possible, and
then proceeded to set their tea for them, after which she went back to
building the fire again. In the work of waiting she was at uncertain
intervals assisted by Joe, a shock-headed, black-haired Celt, who, when
a Sybarite asked at breakfast for toast, repeated "Toast!" in a tone that
set the table in a roar. It was not said impudently or rudely. Far from it.
Joe's tone simply expressed honest amazement, as if one had asked for
a broiled crocodile or any other impossible viand.
There are, of course, people who would like separate servants to build
up peat fires and to cut their bread and butter; but this kind of person
should not come to county Mayo. To the less fastidious all other
shortcomings are made up for by the absolutely delightful manner of
the people, whose kindness, civility, good humour, and, I may add,
honesty, are remarkable. At Hughes's Hotel the politeness of everybody
was perfect; and I may add that the proprietor saved me both time and
money by giving up a long posting job, to his own obvious loss. But if
a visitor to Mayo wants anything done at once, then and there, he had
better do it himself. I ventured to remark to Joe that he was a
civil-spoken boy, but not very prompt in carrying out instructions, and
asked whether everybody in Connaught conducted himself in the same
way. He at once admitted that everybody did so. "Divil the bad answer
ye'll iver get, Sorr," said he. "We just say, 'I will, Sorr,' and thin go
away, and another gintleman says something, and ye're forgotten. Dy'e
see, now?" And away he went, and forgot everything. Being at
Claremorris, I tried to see a "lister," that is, a landowner and agent on
the "black list." I was obliged to make inquiries concerning his
whereabouts, and this investigation soon convinced me that there was
something wrong in Mayo after all; not the spectre vert exactly, but yet
an unpleasant impalpability. All was well at Claremorris. Trade was
good "presently now," potatoes were good and cheap, poverty was not
advancing arm-in-arm with winter. It was cold, for snow was already
on the Nephin; but turf had been stored during the long, fine, warm
summer, and nobody was afraid of the frost. But the instant I
mentioned the name of the gentleman I wanted to find not a soul knew
anything about him. Farming several hundred acres of land on his own

account, a resident on Lough Mask for seven years, and agent to Lord
Erne, he seemed to be a man concerning whose movements the country
side would probably be well informed. But nobody knew anything at
all about him. He might be at the Curragh, or he might be in Dublin,
and then would, one informant thought, slip over to England and get
out of the trouble, if he were wise. In one of the larger stores I saw that
the mention of his name drew every eye upon me, and that the
bystanders were greatly exercised as to my identity and my business. In
this part of the country everybody knows everybody, and a stranger
asking for a proscribed man excited native curiosity to a maddening
pitch. Presently I was taken aside, led round a corner, and there told
that most assuredly the man I sought had not come home from Dublin
viâ Claremorris. Having a map of the county with me, I naturally
suggested that he might have reached Lough Mask by way of Tuam,
and, moreover, that, having a shrewd notion he would be shot at when
occasion served, he would most likely try to get home by an unusual
route on which he would hardly be looked for. "Is it alone ye think he'd
be going, Sorr?" asked my informant in astonishment. "Divil a fut does
he stir widout an escort." This was news indeed. "He came here, sure,
Sorr, wid two constables on the kyar and two mounted men following
him." I was also recommended to hold my tongue, for that Mr.
Boycott's friends would certainly not tell whether he was at home or
not, and his enemies would probably be kept in ignorance or led astray
altogether. But it was necessary for me to find out his whereabouts. To
go and see whether he was at Lough Mask involved a ride of forty
miles, enlivened by the probability of being mistaken for him, slipping
quietly home, and cheered by the risk of hearing at his house that he