Part 12 (1/2)

”Very well,” I said. ”_They._ So long as you know who I mean, the p.r.o.noun will satisfy me. They had to consider not what men like you wanted, but what the Liberal Party could be induced to give. I don't say they made the best bargain possible, but--”

”Anyhow,” said McNeice, ”we're not going to be governed by those fellows. That's the essential point.”

I think it is. The Unionist is not really pa.s.sionately attached to the Union. He has no insuperable antipathy to Home Rule. Indeed, I think most Unionists would welcome any change in our existing system of government if it were not that they have the most profound and deeply rooted objection to the men whom McNeice describes as ”those fellows,”

and O'Donovan indicates briefly as ”they.”

”And so,” I said, turning to O'Donovan, ”in mere despair of nationality you have gone over to the side of the Unionists.”

”I've gone over,” said O'Donovan, ”to the side of the only people in Ireland who mean to fight.”

Supposing that Ulster really did mean to fight O'Donovan's position was quite reasonable. But Babberly says it will never come to fighting. He is quite confident of his ability to bluff the conscientious Liberal into dropping the Home Rule Bill for fear of civil war. O'Donovan, and possibly McNeice, will be left out in the cold if Babberly is right. The matter is rather a tangled one. With Babberly is Lady Moyne, working at her ingenious policy of dragging a red herring across the path along which democracy goes towards socialism. On the other hand there is McNeice with fiery intelligence, and O'Donovan, a coldly consistent rebel against English rule in any shape and form. They have their little paper with money enough behind it, with people like Crossan circulating it for them. It is quite possible that they may count for something. Then there is Malcolmson, a man of almost incredible stupidity, but with a knowledge, hammered into him no doubt with extra difficulty, of how to handle guns.

O'Donovan and McNeice were bending over some proof sheets and talking in low whispers; there was a knock at the office door, and a moment later Malcolmson entered. He looked bristlier than ever, and was plainly in a state of joyous excitement. He held a copy of the first number of _The Loyalist_ in his hand. He caught sight of me at once.

”I'm d.a.m.ned,” he said, ”if I expected to see you here, Kilmore. You're the last man in Ireland--”

”I'm only here by accident,” I said, ”and I'm going away almost at once. Let me introduce you to Mr. McNeice and Mr. O'Donovan.”

Malcolmson shook hands with the two men vigorously. I never shake hands with Malcolmson if I can possibly help it, because he always hurts me. I expect he hurt both McNeice and O'Donovan. They did not cry out, but they looked a good deal surprised.

”I happened to be in Dublin,” said Malcolmson, ”and I called round here to congratulate the editor of this paper. I only came across it the day before yesterday, and--”

”You couldn't have come across it any sooner,” I said, ”for it's only just published.”

”And to put down my name as a subscriber for twenty copies. If you want money--”

”They don't,” I said, ”Conroy is financing them.”

”Conroy has some sound ideas,” said Malcolmson.

”You approve of the paper, then?” said McNeice.

”I like straight talk,” said Malcolmson.

”We aim at that,” said O'Donovan.

”I'm dead sick of politics and speech making,” said Malcolmson. ”What I want is to have a slap at the d.a.m.ned rebels.”

”Mr. O'Donovan's point of view,” I said, ”is almost the same as yours.

What he wants--”

”I'm glad to hear it,” said Malcolmson, ”and I need only say that when the time comes, gentlemen, and it won't be long now if things go on as they are going--you'll find me ready. What Ireland wants--”

Malcolmson paused. I waited expectantly. It is always interesting to hear what Ireland wants. Many people have theories on the subject, and hardly any one agrees with any one else.

”What Ireland wants,” said Malcolmson dramatically, ”is another Oliver Cromwell.”

He drew himself up and puffed out his chest as he spoke. He must, I think, have rather fancied himself in the part of a twentieth century Puritan horse soldier. I looked round at O'Donovan to see how he was taking the suggestion. Oliver Cromwell I supposed, could not possibly be one of his favourite heroes. But I had misjudged O'Donovan. His sympathy with rebels of all nations was evidently stronger than his dislike of the typical Englishman. After all, Cromwell, however objectionable his religious views may have been, did kill a king.