The Storyteller

New Zealand Tablet, Volume LII, Issue 50, 16 December 1925, Page 3

The Storyteller

$ (By Charles J. Kickham.) ||

CHAPTER Vl—(Continued.) The cooper's workshop, you must know, was the favorite resort of the wise and the witty of Shannaclough, who might be seen wending their way thither of an evening to smoke their pipes and discuss political and other —generally in an amicable spirit; except when -Tom McMahon ventured to assert certain claims of direct descent from the victor of Clontarf, which was sure to raise the anger of Stephen O'Brien to such a pitch that Davy Lacy, whose disposition was pacific, was often seen to turn from his contemplation of the poplar tree in Mr. Armstrong's garden, and quietly put the adze and all other dangerous weapons out of the reach of the disputants; and "Dicky Sheil" would sidle close to the wires of his cage, and look down in perplexity and fear. To be sure, religious discussions were not unknown at one time in Rody Flynn's workshop. But happily that time was past and gone. Poor old Hammy Cosgrove, the sexton, stoutly carried on the war, though his supporters had dropped off one by one, till he was left to fight the battle of the Church, as by law established, alone amid a host of foes not shrinking to meet even the formidable Paddy Shannahan, who had Ward's Cantos and Collet's History of the Reformation at the tips of his fingers. But one day the old sexton, taking the "authorised version" from the tail pocket of his rusty black coat, was nervously opening with a view to utterly demolishing his opponents with a text, when Paddy Shannahan, laying his finger upon the page, said in a severe tone—" Read that." "St. Paul to the Romans.' Hammy Cosgrove read, turning his eyes from the book, and fixing them in surprise upon Paddy Shannahan's face, in every lineament of which "victory" complete and decisive was as clearly legible as were the words to which his index finger continued to point. "St. Paul to the Romans," Hammy Cosgrove repeated in a more subdued tone, still wondering what Paddy Shannahan could make of the words, but with a vague presentment of disaster. "St. Paul to the Romans," rejoined Paddy Shannahan, slowly and impressively. "And will you show me St. Paul to the Protestants?" And Paddy Shannahan, drawing himself up to his full height, and folding his arms across his chest, paused for a reply. There was no reply. Hammy Cosgrove closed his Bible with trembling hands, and retreated backwards into the street. He took to his bed for a month, and was "never the same after," his wife used to say. After this, arguing religion" was a thing of the past in Shannaclough; and Paddy Shannahan, who at one time was perhaps the most important person in the parish, would have fallen into comparative obscurity, had he not become the possessor of a certain hook which treated of the identity of , Antichrist, the

m ' 3IP I For the Old; Land 3: I Q A TALE OF FIFTY YEARS AGO. I

knowledge derived from which made Mm, if not a more popular, certainly a, more feared and reverenced character even than he was when the sight of his red-brown wig’made scripture readers hide their diminished heads. \et the attendance in Rody Flynn’s workshop was sure to be unusually numerous whenever Mr. Sweeny, the schoolmaster, was' observed to walk straight over the bridge,: n ithout taking note of the crowd of unruly urchins in the waste space known a s “Bully’s Acre ’ (with a view to “hoistings” on the morrow), and forgetting to enquire how old, Mrs. Ryan s “pains were that evening.” When this happened, and Mr, Sweeny hurried on, looking straight before him, with • his hands under his coat tails, which- jerked up and down curiously as he descended the'incline of the bridge, forgetting in his eager-, ness that he was going down a hill ; then ittv as known that there was “something iri; the paper” which paper the bobbing up and down of the coat tails revealed to all be-! holders, and forthwith there Was a general! movement towards Rody Flynn’s. Rody’fe' pretty daughter, Julia, hurried out from the kitchen on these occasion with a chair for the schoolmaster— a compliment paid to no other visitor except to Mr. Ambrose Armstrong and Mr. Sweeny, in order to give the audience time to assemble, would repress his eagerness, even to the extent of taking a few whiffs from Rody Flynn’s pipe, specially lit for him, before putting on his brassi immed spectacles and unfolding the newspaper. TT.. , _ . .

Leading articles, and didactic utterances in general, were very trying to Rody Flynn, who after conscientiously listening to them from beginning to end, and allowing reasonable time for comment or criticism, would tell the reader to “come to the news of the week. And Body’s round face was not the only face that brightened with awakened interest and relaxation, from strained mental effort, when Mr. Sweeny did come to the news of the week,” in which there was (always sure to be an item that reminded Rody Flynn of something he had seen “in the Queen’s County.” Indeed the experience in the Queen’s County was looked upon .quite as much as a matter of course after the “news of the week,” as was Mr. - Sweeny’s taking off his brass-rimmed spectacles, and wiping his eyes with his blue.'pocket-handker-chief. But wo have not yet told ■ ttye; story about Councillor Doheny’s speech. It w-as when the Old and Young Ireland controversy was at its highest and angriest. Mr. .Sweeny had just commenced the reading of a, speech, when Davy Lacy was interrupted in his contemplation of the top of the poplar tree—only about the size of his hand of which had at that time appeared above the, tiles, and that “lad of his” still got over the threshold on all-fours—by the half-door, being .rudely

pushed in. It was the ultra O'Connellite, John Nowlan, who, as became a "Repeal . V X Warden" and an apostle of "moral force," was aggressive, and scowled, as* he pushed ; his way in, at Mick Conway, the slater, who was an open supporter of the "advanced" /■"""""party. Mr. Sweeny went on reading the lJ : speech as if nothing had happened, and John Nowlan was soon caught and carried away by the vigor and beauty of its eloquence. "Who made that speech?" John Nowlan asked when Mr. Sweeny had come to "loud and long-continued applause," and laid the newspaper upon his knees, glancing upwards over the rims of his spectacles at Dicky Sheil, who seemed to have waited for the right moment to poxir out a little cataract of earpiercing melody. "Who made that speech?" the Repeal Warden repeated. "Counsellor Doo-hee-ny," Mick Conway answered, winking at the schoolmaster, who replied with another wink, and turned his attention again to Dicky Sheil,-who had his ear cocked to catch any note of despair that Terry Hanrahan's thrush or Tom Doherty's blackbird might dare to send back to his challenge. "Counsellor Doo-hee-ny," mused John Nowlan. "Who is Counsellor Dee-hee-ny? V I never heard of Counsellor Doo-hee-ny. Read that speech again." Mr. Sweeny complied. "That's the best speech I ever heard," exclaimed John Nowlan the Repeal Warden. "But how is it I never heard of this Counsellor Doo-hee-ny before? Read that passage again, where he speaks of 'the ruined home"~A steads of Tipperary." ■'{■ Mr. 'Sweeny read the passage. "O'Connell never made such a speech," exclaimed the Repeal Warden. "But who is this Counsellor Doo-hee-ny? Whoever he is he is the greatest orator in Ireland." : .1; Mr. Sweeny raised the newspaper to his nose, and laughed behind .it, while Rody Flynn had to lay down the razor with which he was shaving one of the neighbors, and hold his sides. "Who can this Doo-hee-ny be?" muttered the Repeal Warden, unconscious of their mirth, and not even observing that David Lacy had turned round and fixed a glance of intensely sorrowful and wounding reproach ■f upon him. "Don't you know your old friend Counsellor Dogh-eny?" Mick Conway, the Young lrelander asked. "Curse him, he never made a speech!" shouted John Nowlan savagely, nulling open the door and upsetting Davy Lacy son and heir upon the pavement, and viciously kickf ing Rody Flynn's dog, Tip, whose very placi- ,\ dity as he sat dozingly watching a cluster l of 'busy gnats that whirled and danced not ;■■••! many inches above, his nose, seemed to aggra- | vate the anger of .- the exasperated Repeal !'■ Warden, who for eighteen! months afterwards never seen to cross Rody Flynn's thresr(L hold. But John Nowlan soon after ~ got his If auger converted into a pike-head, and did -i' h other inconsistent things, for which' he was J- JJ "in the black books" with Father Feehan 1 till the day of his death. B'-* 8 '-*' S2(^~"siaol '^ l * ,t ' But these things happened several years

before this breezy morning in. May, when Rody Flynn pronounced Mr Robert O'Keeffe, as he rode by upon his handsome bay horse, the "piiftiest" man he ever "seen," with the inevitable exception of the one "gentleman" in the Queen's County, and Mr. O'Keeffe, as he stroked his horse's neck with his gloved hand, did not fail to observe that the little white curtain of the window next the workshop was drawn aside, and that Julia Flynn's violet eyes peeped at him from behind the great scarlet geranium— slip from the magnificent one in the glass porch of Rockview House, presented to Julia by her friend, Miss Alice Cormack. When the handsome horseman had passed, Julia ran out to the workshop, and, standing at the door, gazed after him with her soft eyes so different from her father's small round black onesand said in a pensive sort of way, as if she could envy the winner of such a prize "Well, they'll be the handsomest couple in all Ireland, if there was fifty Queen's Counties in it." Mr. O'Keeffe reined in his horse at the steps of the priest's hall door and dismounted. This seemed to surprise the bailiff, who gave over admiring his stout little calves, comfortably encased in ribbed woollen stockings, and raised himself upon his elbow to listen. "I thought he'd ride to the stable," he muttered,, in a purring whisper, "and that I could slip away without being seen." "Take him to the forge," he heard Mr. O'Keeffe say, "and get this shoe fastened. Don't be long, Joe, as I have no time to lose.". . "All right, sir," the priest's boy, Joe Cooney, replied. "I'll just run to the coachhouse for the harness winkers, as I want to get a stitch in it." "I'm afraid," mused Mr. Sammy Sloane, "they might get up a row at the forge, and I always like to do things quiet. I'll run off, and maybe I could get Joe to come into Nick Martin's and have a tumbler of porter, and I might be able.to give him the slip." Sammy Sloane trotted across the enclosure, which we have described as half field and half shrubbery, till he came to the avenue gate, when he paused suddenly, with the forefinger of his left hand laid along the side of his nose. "There's no harm in trying it," said he in his purring whisper, with a twinkle in his greenish-grey eye. He took the padlock from the bar, and turning the hasp, locked the gate in the usual way, and put the key into his waistcoat pocket. He had only time to get over the stile, and stoop down near the wall outside, under pretence of tying the string of his boot, when Joe Cooney came down 5, the . avenue leading Mr. O'Keeffe's horse, and whistling "The '" Unfortunate Rake," to the concluding bars of which melody Suddenly changing the whistle to a song-f-he sang, in a not unmusical voice, and with a-suggestive tenderness of look and intonation of the words— -■"' "~ - - ~- 'OLBPJM'ifiOD bs«s 'S'f 4 -'V' : ., ? "Arise, bonnie lassie, we'll bundle and go." "Who the divil locked the gate?" Joe- ex-. claimed', giving a pull' to the lock. "' "I ' sup-

pose it must be Mrs. Slattery to vex Father Clancy. 'Tis surprising what plans women have when they want to vex a man. f-' Nona of us could stand her if we didn't praise her She'd stand on her head for yoajlwypci praised her. But Father Clancy nevi»- praises any wan. I must tell her that he said 'she was the best woman in Irelandor some other —or she'll set the poor man out of his sinses." And Joe Cooney hung the rein'l on the gate, and hurried back' to get the key from the housekeeper, and pay her compliments, we are sorry to say, equally extravagant and insincere. (To be continued.) %,