Stories by English Authors: Ireland | Page 6

and seize Harold's
portmanteau, which he deposited on the road with no gentle hand.
"What do you mean?" cried the young man, indignantly.
"I mane that ye'd betther come down out o' that afore I make ye."
Harold was on the ground in a moment and approached the man with
clinched fists and flashing eyes.
"How dare you, you scoundrel! Will you drive me to Lisnahoe or will
you not?"
"The divil a fut," answered the fellow, sullenly.
Hayes controlled his anger by an effort. There was nothing to be gained
by a row with the man. He turned to another driver.
"Pick up that portmanteau. Drive me out to Mr. Connolly's. I'll pay
double fare."
But they all with one consent, like the guests in the parable, began to
make excuse. One man's horse was lame, another's car was broken
down; the services of a third had been "bespoke." Few were as frank as
the man first engaged, but all were prompt with the obvious lies,
scarcely less aggravating than actual rudeness. The station-master
appeared, and attempted to use his influence in the traveller's behalf,
but he effected nothing.

"You'll have to walk, sir," said the official, civilly. "I'll keep your
portmanteau here till Mr. Connolly sends for it." And he carried the
luggage back into the station.
"How far is it to Mr. Connolly's?" Harold inquired of a ragged urchin
who had strolled up with several companions.
"Fish an' find out," answered the youngster, with a grin.
"We'll tache them to be sendin' Emergency men down here," said
another.
The New-Yorker was fast losing patience.
"This is Irish hospitality and native courtesy," he remarked, bitterly.
"Will any one tell me the road I am to follow?"
"Folly yer nose," a voice shouted; and there was a general laugh, in the
midst of which the station-master reappeared.
He pointed out the way, and Harold trudged off to accomplish, as best
he might, five Irish miles over miry highways and byways through the
darkness of the December evening.
This was the young American's first practical experience of boycotting.
It was nearly seven o'clock when, tired and mud-bespattered, he
reached Lisnahoe; but the warmth of his reception there went far to
banish all recollection of the discomforts of his solitary tramp. A hearty
hand-clasp from Jack, a frank and smiling greeting from Polly (she
looked handsomer than ever, Harold thought, with her lustrous black
hair and soft, dark-gray eyes), put him at his ease at once. Then came
introductions to the rest of the family. Mr. Connolly, stout and
white-haired, bade him welcome in a voice which owned more than a
touch of Tipperary brogue. Mrs. Connolly, florid and good-humoured,
was very solicitous for his comfort. The children confused him at first.
There were so many of them, of all sizes, that Hayes abandoned for the
present any attempt to distinguish them by name. There was a tall lad
of twenty or thereabouts,--a faithful copy of his elder brother
Jack,--who was addressed as Dick, and a pretty, fair-haired girl of
seventeen, whom, as Polly's sister, Harold was prepared to like at once.
She was Agnes. After these came a long array,--no less than nine
more,--ending with a sturdy little chap of three, whom Polly presently
picked up and carried off to bed. Mr. Connolly, of Lisnahoe, could
boast of a full quiver.
There was a general chorus of laughter as Harold related his experience

at the railway-station. The Connollys had rested for several days under
the ban of the most rigid boycott, and had become used to small
discomforts. They faced the situation bravely, and turned all such petty
troubles into jest; but the American was sorely disquieted to learn that
there was only one servant in the house--an old man who for many
years had blacked boots and cleaned knives for the family, and who had
refused to crouch to heel under the lash of the boycott.
Harold stammered an apology for his unseasonable visit, but Jack cut
him short.
"Nonsense, man; the more the merrier. We're glad to have you, and if
you can rough it a bit you won't find it half bad fun."
"Oh, I don't mind, I'm sure," said Harold; "only I'm afraid you'd rather
have your house to yourselves at such a time as this."
"Not we. Why, we expect some Emergency men down here in a few
days. We'll treat you as the advance guard; we'll set you to work and
give you your grub the same as an Emergency man."
"What is an Emergency man?" inquired Harold. "Those Chesterfieldian
drivers at the station seemed to think it was the worst name they could
call me."
A hearty laugh went round the circle.
"If they took ye for an Emergency man, it's small wonder they were