THE O'FARRELLY FEUD

Wairarapa Times-Age, 8 June 1940, Page 10

THE O'FARRELLY FEUD

COPYRIGHT. PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT.

By

GEORGE A. BIRMINGHAM.

Author of “General John Regan,” “Up the Rebels,” etc., etc.

CHAPTER XI. (Continued). “He looks poor,” said Ronnie, “but he’s not. Half the people in Ballycon owe money to O’Farrelly and he’s making piles and piles out of that pub of his, besides what he pockets as Chairman of the Rural Council. There’s not a contract given out, but he gets his rake off from it. Poor! That’s the last thing that can be said about O’Farrelly.” “He’s richer nor what her ladyship is,” said Quinn, “far richer.” “Rich or poor,” said Daphne. “It’s not right to destroy his property. It’s not right to destroy any property, whether it’s worth anything or not. And I know what a lot nets cost for I’ve just bought one, so I won’t ruin O’Farrelly’s. All I want to do is to cut the tiers which fasten on the sinkers. That won’t do the net itself any harm.”

This sudden and totally unexpected emergence of a conscience in Daphne, surprised Ronnie, surprised him so much that he ceased to make any further objection to her plan.

“Very well,' he said, “I suppose the the thing is possible, and if you’re bent on doing it we’d better begin at once before the tide runs too strong or O’Farrelly comes back. But there’ll be the very hell of a row afterwards. O’Farrelly is a vindictive brute. He won’t take it as a joke at all.” “I’ll begin at this end,” said Daphne. “You can swim across and start at the other end. Only we’ll have to be careful when we meet in the middle. It won’t do to cut each other to pieces and that might happen under water quite easily.” Ronnie, the carving knife held firmly between his teeth, waded in and swam across the creek. Two or three minutes later Daphne dived. “The Lord save us and keep us,” said Quinn. “It’s terrible daring that one is. But it’s always the same. Little know, little fear, and there never was a truer word. It’s a pity now that they didn’t teach her some sense when they had her in that college in London.”

Mousie’s prayer was unuttered, but perhaps more sincere. She stood with her hands clasped together watching. She fully expected at any moment to see a violent agitation of the floats of the net, a sign that Daphne, hopelessly entangled, was struggling for her life in the depths. Quinn’s fears were different. Knowing the sharpness of his knives he expected to see a severed limb float to the surface amid a swirl of blood-stained water.

Nothing of the sort happened. For what seemed to the watchers an interminable time, there appeared little chains of bubbles on the surface marking the progress of the divers. Then Daphne’s head appeared. She was breathless and spluttering but, so far, unharmed. She waved her carving knife -cheerfully, as evidence that all was well with her and the work progressing. A few seconds later, Ronnie’s head emerged. He had stayed under water a little longer than Daphne, and as .appeared by his distance from tne shore, had accomplished more than she had.

“Daphne, darling, come back,” cried Mousie.

“Haven’t you enough done for one day?” pleadea Quinn. “It’s the mercy of God that you’re not cut to pieces already. Will you have sense now and come out of the sea?”

Daphne’s only answer was to turn over and dive again. A moment later Ronnie also disappeared.

The mouth of the creek was narrow. The two divers worked hard. It was not long before the whole net, freed from its sinkers, was floating out seaward. No mullet, unless imbecile or determined on suicide would be caught in it that day. Daphne and Ronnie swam ashore, Daphne delighted with her success, Ronnie, more than ever apprehensive about the consequences of an utterly lawness act. “I’ll put the knives in a basin of oil,” said Quinn, “and they’ll not be a penny the worse.” “I rather think,” said Daphne, “that the amber gooseberries, are ripe on the trees near the south wall. What about a feed. I feel as if I want something.” “There’s a dish of raspberries and cream for luncheon, Miss,” said Quinn. He remembered, as everyone else did, Mousie’s attack of sickness aha traced it back to over-indulgence in strawberries. He meant his information about the raspberries and cream as a warning. Gooseberries first and then raspberries might affect Mousie again. Daphne understood him otherwise.

“If we could get hold of that dish,” she said. “It would save all the trouble of picking the gooseberries. Do you think you could get it for us, Quinn and a few spoons, of course?” “The cook would be terrible mad if I was to take them raspberries from her,” said Quinn.

“She can make a bread pudding instead,” said Daphne. “Her ladyship—” said Quinn.

“Her ladyship probably prefers bread pudding,” said Daphne. "Old people often do. Anyhow let’s get out of this. O’Farrelly might be coming back at any moment.” “It's likely,’ said Quinn, “that he’ll have something to say when he does come back.”

“Exactly,” said Daphne. “I don’t mind ordinary swears in the least; but the things O’Farrelly says are rather too exciting for me.” “Do you think,” said Mousie. “that he'll beat that poor boy again?” “Absolutely certain to.” said Ronnie.

“And very good for him too,” said Quinn. “Don’t you fret yourself about Danny, Miss. He’s used to beating and plenty of it.” In the distance O’Farrelly’s boat appeared. There was no time to waste. The whole party hurried up to the house. It is gratifying to know that the cook, hearing from Quinn the

story of Daphne's bravery, handed over the raspberries and cream without protest. She even ,as a token of admiration, made pancakes for lunch, and pancakes are far preferable to bread puddings. CHAPTER XII. At half past eleven next morning Peter O’Farrelly walked into Ronnie’s office. He entered it with a certain swagger, very different from the deprecating shuffle with which he usually approached anyone connected with the law.

He brushed his way past the clerk in the outer office, a mild and timid youth whose duty it was to keep visitors at bay untli Ronnie was ready to see them. This boy made the usual enquiries, but O’Farrelly declined ,to say whether he had an appointment or not, and refused to allow the clerk the discover whether or not Ronnie was engaged. He did not even tap at the door of the inner office, but walked straight in and slammed it behind him.

Ronnie saw at once that he was selfconfident ana in no mood for compromise or peaceful settlement. But Ronnie was too good a lawyer to allow the weakness of his own position to appear. i I

“Good morning, Peter. If there’s anything I can do for you just tell me what it is. A threatening letter now to one of .those wretched debtors of yours? I’m glad I don’t owe you any money.”

But Ronnie, though he spoke boldly, knew in his heart that he would be in a better position than he was, even if he owed O’Farrelly more than ho could hope to pay. The cutting of tne sinkers off the net was an act which it would be very difficult, indeed impossible, to defend in any court of law. But long experience had taught him the folly of taking up an apologetic attitude at the beginning of a dispute. His policy—and he was convinced of its wisdom —was to assume a confidence equal to O’Farrelly’s own. “It’s not what you can do for me that I’ve come to talk about,” said Peter. “It’s what I’m going to do to you and those two girls that you have stravaging about the country, with you and that old strap of a ladyship up at the castle and that fellow Quinn with his gladiatoring.” “Kit down, Peter,” said Ronnie, “sit down and don't talk to me as if you were addressing a meeting of corner boys of a Sunaay afternoon on the fair green.” O’Farrelly sat down heavily in the chair reserved for clients and by way of showing mat he was completely master of the situation, took his pipe out of his pocket, put it into his moutn and sucked at it. There was no tobacco in it, but the gesture showed a contemptuous indifference to Ronnie’s feelings. “I'll talk as I please,” he said. “And I’m thinking you’ll have less to say when I’ve told you what I have to tell. I have Sam Geraghty engaged to prosecute you and your friends, so there you are and what do you think about that?”

Sam Geraghty was a solicitor whose main practice was in the neighbouring town of Ballymaw. Once a week he came over to Ballycon and sat for an hour or two in an office there, in the hope of picking up any clients who happened to be dissatisfied at the moment with the advice Ronnie had given them.

He had a reputation as a tricky and unscrupulous fighter, a man who would make the very best of a bad case and often win, when in justice he ought not to have won, by bluff and bullying. Besides being Ronnie’s most dangerous professional rival, he was a man of considerable ability with great experience of the ways of Irish courts ‘of law.

Ronnie was uncomfortably aware that Geraghty was just the man to push the case against Lady Margaret and Daphne with vindictive vigour. And there was little or no defence to make. But he had no intention of allowing O’Farrelly to see that he felt' uncomfortable.

“If you’re thinking of taking an action against Quinn for slander," he said, “you may as well drop it. Geraghty won’t be able to make anything out without making things so unpleasant for you that you’ll never be able to hold your head up again in Bally- 1 con.”

O’Farrelly was a little suprised by this unexpected frontal attack. But he still felt secure. “Slander!” he said. “What slander?”

“You know well enough what slander. All the talk there was about your indecent conduct when the two young ladies were bathing. But you won’t be able to prove that Quinn started that.”

“It’s not that I’m thinking of at all.”

“Well, you’d better think of it and think carefully, for every single detail will come out if you take an action against Quinn for slander.”

“It’s not an action against Quinn I’m taking. No, it's not for slander. It’s against those two young ladies and against yourself and it’s for malicious injury to my property, for cutting my net to pieces. If Quinn helped it’ll be so much the worse for him. But it’s not him I'm caring about, nor The young ladies either. It’s the old hag up at the castle. I’ve had it in against her this long time, and I mean to get my own back now.”

It is said that the great difference between the English and the Irish —a difference whicn renders it impossible for them to live together in amity—is that the English never remember and the Irish never forget. Whatever the truth may be about the ordinary Englishman, there can be little doubt of the enduring quality of the Irishman’s memory. (To bo Continued)