As Soon As I Could Distinguish Words Among The War Of Sounds I
Understood That The Young Farmer Accused The Soberest Sergeant Of Being
One Of The Party That Shot Young Hickey At Dr. Pomeroy's, And That He
Was Burning For Revenge.
The constable was a Northman, I knew by his
tongue, and he was at a northern white heat of anger.
The young farmer
was almost mad with rage and drink. The drunken sergeant seemed to sober
in the congenial element of a probable row, and he and two sober
civilians exerted themselves to keep the peace, and to pacify the farmer
and get him to sit down.
In one of the pauses in the storm the peace-making sergeant wanted a
match; an old man behind me who had matches was appealed to for one and
he declined, averring with much simplicity that he was afraid of being
shot. His wife in a vigorous whisper advised him to keep his matches in
his pocket. Everyone in that car, drunk or sober, peace-making or not,
sympathised with that young farmer and were against the police.
We reached Fermoy quite late. The next morning early I took a car and
drove out to Mitchelstown, at the foot of the Galtees. Passed at a
distance, half hidden among embowering woods, the castle residence of
Lord Mount Cashel, who seems to be as much liked here as he was on the
Galgorm estate, but there were whispered reminiscences of by-gone wicked
agents.
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