Stories by English Authors: Ireland | Page 7

none too swate on ye," observed Mr. Connolly.
"But what does it mean?" asked the New-Yorker.
"Well," began the old gentleman, "there's good and bad in this world of
ours. When tenants kick and labourers clare out, an' a boycott's put on a
man, they'd lave yer cattle to die an' yer crops to rot for all they care.
It's what they want. Well, there happens to be a few dacent people left
in Ireland yet, and they have got up an organization they call the
Emergency men; they go to any part of the country and help out people
that have been boycotted through no fault of their own--plough their
fields or reap their oats or dig their potatoes, an' generally knock the
legs out from under the boycott. It stands to reason that the blackguards
in these parts hate an Emergency man as the divil hates holy water; but
ye may take it as a compliment that ye were mistook for one, for all
that."
Here Dick thrust his head into the door of the large library, in which the
party was assembled.

"Dinner is served, my lords and ladies," he cried; and there was a
general movement toward the dining-room.
"No ceremony here, my boy," laughed Jack, as he led Harold across the
hall. "I'll be your cavalier and show you the way. The girls are in the
kitchen, I suppose."
But Miss Connolly and Agnes were already in the dining-room, and the
party gathered round the well-spread board and proceeded to do full
justice to the good things thereon. The meal was more like a picnic than
a set dinner. Old Peter Dwyer, the last remaining retainer, had never
attended at table, so he confined himself to kitchen duties, while the
young Connollys waited on themselves and on each other. A certain
little maid, whom Harold by this time had identified as Bella, devoted
herself to the stranger, and took care that neither his glass nor his plate
should be empty. A glance of approval, which he intercepted on its way
from Miss Connolly to her little sister, told Harold that Bella had been
given a charge concerning him, and he appreciated the attention none
the less on that account, while he ate his dinner with the agreeable
confidence that it had been prepared by Miss Polly's own fair hands.
Everything at table was abundant and good of its kind, and
conversation was alert and merry, as it is apt to be in a large family
party. So far, the boycott seemed to have anything but a depressing
effect, though Harold could not help smiling as he realised how it
would have crushed to powder more than one estimable family of his
acquaintance.
After dinner Jack rose, saying that he must go round to the stables and
bed down the horses for the night. Harold accompanied him, and
acquitted himself very well with a pitchfork, considering that he had
little experience with such an implement. he had gone with a couple of
the younger boys to chop turnips for certain cattle which were being
fattened for the market.
"How did you come to be boycotted?" inquired Harold, with some
curiosity, as soon as he found himself alone with Jack.
"Oh, it doesn't take much talent to accomplish that nowadays,"
answered the young Irishman, with a laugh. "In the first place, the
governor has a habit of asking for his rent, which is an unpopular
proceeding at the best of times. In the second place, I bought half a
dozen bullocks from a boycotted farmer out Limerick way."

"And is that all?" asked Harold, in astonishment. Notwithstanding his
regard for his friend, he had never doubted that there must have been
some appalling piece of persecution to justify this determined
ostracism.
"All!" echoed Jack, laughing. "You don't know much of Ireland, my
boy, or you wouldn't ask that question. We bought cattle that had been
raised by a farmer on land from which a defaulting tenant had been
evicted. Men have been shot in these parts for less than that."
"Pleasant state of affairs," remarked the New-Yorker.
"I don't much care," Jack went on, lightly. "We're promised a couple of
Emergency men from Ulster in a few days, and that will take the
weight of the work off our hands. It isn't as if it were a busy time. No
crops to be saved in winter, you see, and no farm work except
stall-feeding the cattle. That can't wait."
"But your sisters--all the work of that big house--" began Harold, who
was thinking of Polly.
"We expect two Protestant girls down from Belfast to-morrow. That'll
be all right. We get all our grub from Dublin,--they won't sell us
anything in Ballydoon,--and we mean to keep on doing so, boycott