The public meeting was a very great success, in spite of the absence of the Members of Parliament, who certainly gave poor value for their salaries.  The town band, headed by young Kerrigan, who played the cornet, paraded the streets for half-an-hour before the meeting.  It played “The Bonnie, Bonnie Banks of Loch Lomond” three times over, “The Boys of Wexford” twice, and “God Save Ireland” four times.  This served to remind the people that something of an interesting and patriotic kind was going to happen.  A band is much more effective in attracting public attention than a town crier, and it ought, one may suppose, to arrange a kind of code of tunes by means of which people would be able to tell at once without verbal inquiry what sort of event was intended.  For an auction of household furniture, for instance, a thing which takes place when a family leaves the locality, the band might play “The Harp that Once Through Tara’s Halls.”  Everybody would recognise the appropriateness of the words about the banquet hall deserted, and the departure of the people who had used it.  For the other kind of auction, that at which the cows of men who refuse to pay their rents are sold, “God Save Ireland,” would be suitable, and anyone who heard it would know that though he might attend the auction he had better not bid.  An ingenious musician would have no difficulty in finding tunes which would suggest the presentation of illuminated addresses to curates or bank managers.  Meetings convened for the purpose of expressing confidence in the Members of Parliament, of either the Nationalist or the Unionist parties, would naturally be announced by a performance of Handel’s fine song “Angels ever Bright and Fair.”  There might be a difficulty about unusual events like the erection of statues, but a tune might be kept for them which would at all events warn people not to expect an auction, a presentation or a political meeting.

Nearly half the people who were doing business in the fair assembled at three o’clock in the square outside Doyle’s hotel.  According to the estimate printed afterwards in the Connacht Eagle there were more than two thousand persons present.  Of these at least twenty listened to all the speeches that were made.  The number of those who heard parts of some of the speeches was much larger, amounting probably to sixty, for there was a good deal of coming and going, of moving in and out of the group round the speakers.  The rest of the audience stood about in various parts of the square.  Men talked to each other on the interesting questions of the price of cattle and the prospects of a change in the weather.  Women stood together with parcels in their hands and looked at each other without talking at all.  But everyone was so far interested in the speeches as to join in the cheers when anything which ought to be cheered was said.  The twenty stalwart listeners who stood out all the speeches attended to what was said and started the cheers at the proper moments.  The stragglers who, hearing only a sentence or two now and then, were liable to miss points, took up the cheers which were started.  The mass of the men, those who were talking about cattle, very courteously stopped their conversations and joined in whenever they heard a cheer beginning.  There was, so Gallagher said in the next issue of the Connacht Eagle, an unmistakable and most impressive popular enthusiasm for General John Regan.

Father McCormack, standing on a chair borrowed from Doyle’s Hotel, opened the proceedings.  He said that Ireland had always been famed for its hospitality to strangers and its courtesy to women.  He hoped that it always would be.  Looking round on the faces of the men gathered in front of him, he felt quite certain that it always would be.  Mr. Billing, who was to address the meeting that day, was a stranger, a very distinguished stranger, one whose name was a household word wherever the deeds of General John Regan were remembered, one whose name would be still better known when his forthcoming life of the General appeared.  He was proud and pleased to extend to Mr. Billing on behalf of the audience a hearty Caed Mille Failthe.  He hoped that Mr. Billing would carry back with him a pleasant recollection of Irish hospitality when he returned to ­

Here Father McCormack hesitated and looked round.  Dr. O’Grady, who was standing behind him whispered the word “Bolivia.”  Father McCormack repeated the word “Bolivia” aloud and everybody cheered.  Father McCormack moistened his lips and went on to say that Mr. Billing was not a woman, but Irish courtesy, though always extended to women, was not confined to women.  In the name of the audience he promised Mr. Billing some Irish courtesy.

A further reference to Mr. Billing’s literary work gave Father McCormack an opportunity of warning his audience against Sunday newspapers published in England, which, he said, reeked of the gutter and were horribly subversive of faith and morals.  Ireland, he added, had newspapers of her own which no one need be ashamed or afraid to read.  As an evidence of the confidence he felt in the elevating character of Irish newspapers he called upon Mr. Thaddeus Gallagher, the distinguished editor of the Connacht Eagle, to address the meeting.  Then with the assistance of Dr. O’Grady, he stepped off the chair.  Having reached the ground safely he sat down on the chair.  He had a perfect right to do this because he was chairman of the meeting; but a slight delay followed.  Another chair had to be brought from the hotel for Gallagher to stand on.

Gallagher’s speech was an eloquent paraphrase of the leading article which Dr. O’Grady had written for him the previous week.  Once or twice he broke away from his original and said some very good things about the land question and Home Rule.  But he always got back to Emmet, O’Connell, or one of the other patriots mentioned by Dr. O’Grady.  Now and then, in a very loud tone, he said the name of General John Regan.  Whenever he did so the audience was greatly pleased.  He ended by announcing the names of the gentlemen who were to form “The Statue Committee.”  Father McCormack came first on the list.  Mr. Billing was second.  Major Kent, Dr. O’Grady, Doyle and Gallagher himself made up the number.  He said that it was unnecessary for him to say anything about the fitness of these gentlemen for the high and responsible position to which they were being elected by the unanimous voice of their fellow countrymen.

Gallagher descended from his perch, but he was not allowed to sit down.  He wanted to, because sitting down is a far more dignified way of ending a speech than slouching into the background.  It was Doyle who interfered with him.

“Get up out of that, Thady,” he said.  “Don’t you know the chair’s wanted for the American gentleman?  How is he to make a speech if you don’t give him something to stand on?”

Gallagher, who had not actually succeeded in sitting down, left his chair with a protest.

“It would suit you better to be getting another chair,” he said.

“It would not,” said Doyle.  “Would you have all the chairs that’s in it brought out to the street?”

Mr. Billing stood up and smiled pleasantly.  Father McCormack’s exhortation had its effect.  More than forty people gathered to hear what the stranger had to say.  This was courtesy.  The hospitality, it was presumed, had already been shown by Doyle.  Gallagher, who still had hopes of finding out something about General John Regan, and Dr. O’Grady, who was equally anxious to hear the speech, leaned forward eagerly.  Father McCormack crossed his legs and settled himself as comfortably as possible in his chair.

Mr. Billing proved a disappointment as a speaker.  The substance of what he said was quite admirable, but he only spoke for five minutes.  Now an audience, even if it is not listening and does not want to listen, is apt to complain that it is treated with a want of respect if a speaker gives it no more than five minutes.

“I reckon,” said Mr. Billing, “that what’s required of me is not oratory but dollars.”

This was true but nude.  In Ireland we have a sure instinct in such matters, and we know that the nude is never decent.  We like everything, especially Truth, to have clothes on.

“Five hundred dollars is the amount that I’m prepared to hand over to your treasurer.  As I understand, gentlemen, your doctor has secured the services of the Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland to unveil the statue.  We don’t figure much on fancy titles on our side, but I guess it’s different here, and your doctor is a smart man.  I may not see that Lord-Lieutenant, gentlemen, and I may not see the statue.  I shall be researching in the principal libraries of the continent of Europe for documents bearing on the life of the great general.  Whether I am here or not will depend on the date which that Lord-Lieutenant and your doctor fix up between them.  But I’ll be along for the occasion if I can.”

The first sentence of Mr. Billing’s speech was indecently nude.  The remainder of it was offensively bald.  There was once an elderly and cantankerous farm labourer who complained that he could not hear the curate when he preached.  He was on the next occasion set in the forefront of the congregation and the curate spoke directly into his ear.  The old man was unable to say that he did not hear, but he maintained an aggrieved attitude.  “I heard him,” he complained afterwards, “but what good was it to me?  What I want is to have the Gospel druv well home to my soul.”  The feeling of most audiences is very much the same as his was.  Unadorned statements of fact, or what is meant to be taken as fact, do not satisfy them.  They like to have something, fact or fiction, driven thunderously home into their souls.  The only one of Mr. Billing’s hearers who was thoroughly well satisfied with his speech was Doyle.  The statement that five hundred dollars were to be handed over to him was, in his judgment, of more value than many resonant periods.

But the Irish courtesy, praised by Father McCor-mack, prevailed against the general feeling of disappointment.  When Mr. Billing ceased speaking there was a moment of doubtful silence.  No one quite realised that he had really stopped.  He had indeed descended from his chair, and, except for the top of his head, was invisible to most of the audience.  But everyone expected him to get up again and start fresh.  It seemed quite incredible that a public speaker, with an audience ready found for him, could possibly throw away a valuable opportunity and content himself with a simple five minutes of plain talk.  It was not until Father McCormack rose from his chair with a sigh and began to make his way towards his presbytery that the people understood that the meeting was really at an end.  Then they cheered quite heartily.  Mr. Billing crossed the square and walked over towards the hotel.  He smiled and nodded right and left as he went.  An outburst of cheering pursued him through the door.

Sergeant Colgan and Constable Moriarty had stood during the speeches in a quiet corner near their barrack.  When Father McCormack went home and Mr. Billing entered the hotel, they marched with great dignity up and down through the people.  They looked as if they expected someone to start a riot It is the duty of the police in Ireland on all occasions of public meetings to look as if there might be a riot, and as if they are quite prepared to quell it when it breaks out.  It is in this way that they justify their existence as a large armed force.

Occasionally Sergeant Colgan spoke a word of kindly advice to anyone who looked as if he had drunk more than two bottles of porter.

“It would be as well for you, Patsy,” he would say, “to be getting along home.”

Or, “I’m thinking, Timothy John, that you’d be better this minute if you were at home.”

There are no stronger believers in the value of the domestic hearth than the police.  They always want everyone to go home.

No one, least of all the individuals who received the advice personally, was inclined to leave the square.  The meeting might be over, but there was still hope that young Kerrigan would muster the town band again and play “The Bonnie, Bonnie Banks of Loch Lomond” once or twice more.  He did not do so, but the waiting people were rewarded for their patience by two events of some interest.  Mr. Gregg came out of the barrack and crossed the square rapidly.  He caught Dr. O’Grady and Major Kent just as they were turning to follow Mr. Billing into the hotel.  Mr. Gregg was in uniform, and the determined way in which he took Dr. O’Grady by the arm would have made most people uncomfortable.  It is not pleasant, even if your conscience is quite clear, to be grabbed suddenly by a police officer in the middle of the street.  But Dr. O’Grady did not seem to mind.  He went, though not very willingly, with Mr. Gregg into the police barrack.  Major Kent followed them.  Several men, perhaps a dozen, drifted across the square towards the barrack door.  They had some hope of finding out what Mr. Gregg wanted with the doctor.  They were not, however, given the opportunity of peering through the barrack windows.  Sergeant Colgan saw them in good time and dispersed them at once.

“Get along home now out of that,” he said, “every one of yez.”

Then another event of great interest occurred.  Mr. Billing backed his large motor-car along the lane which led from Doyle’s back yard, and emerged into the square.  There the car growled angrily while he shifted the levers and twisted the steering wheel.  The people scattered this way and that while the machine, darting backwards and forwards, was gradually turned round.  A splendid burst of cheering pursued him when he finally sped down the street and disappeared.  It was understood by those who heard his speech that he had gone off at more than twenty miles an hour to ransack the great European libraries for information about General John Regan.  Everyone felt that the splendid eagerness of his departure reflected a glory on Ballymoy.

Mr. Gregg led Dr. O’Grady and Major Kent into his office.  He shut the door, offered his two guests chairs, and then lit a cigarette.

“It’s rather an awkward business,” he said, “and perhaps I oughtn’t to say anything about it.”

“If it hasn’t anything to do with me personally,” said the Major, “I think I’ll leave you and the doctor to settle it together.  I want to get home as soon as I can.”

“Well, it does affect you more or less,” said Mr. Gregg.  “But of course you’ll regard anything I say to you now as strictly confidential.”

“Out with it, Gregg,” said Dr. O’Grady.  “I know by the look in your eye that you can’t possibly keep it to yourself, whatever it is.  You’re simply bursting to tell it, whatever it is, whether we promise to keep it secret or not.”

“All the same,” said Gregg, “it wouldn’t suit my book to have it generally known that I told you.  It wouldn’t suit at all.  That fellow Ford is a vindictive sort of beast.”

“Oh, it’s Ford, is it?” said Dr. O’Grady.  “I was afraid he might turn nasty.  What an ass he is!  Why can’t he see that we’re giving him the chance of his life?”

“He’s doing his best to put a spoke in your wheel, O’Grady.”

“Has he got anything against the statue?”

“Not exactly the statue.”

“Or found out anything discreditable about the General?”

The doctor asked this question a little anxiously.

“No,” said Gregg, “I don’t think he knows a thing about the General.  He asked me this morning who he was.”

“Look here, O’Grady,” said the Major.  “You’d far better drop this whole business.  What’s the good of going on with it?  A joke’s a joke all right, but there’s no use pushing things too far.”

“What Ford’s trying to do,” said Gregg, “is to crab the Lord-Lieutenant part of the business.  I thought I’d better tell you, so that you’d know exactly how things stand.”

“You’ve not told me much, so far,” said Dr. O’Grady.  “What’s Ford’s particular line?”

“I expect he has more than one card up his sleeve,” said Gregg, “but what he said to me this morning was that you couldn’t possibly have the Lord-Lieutenant down here for any kind of public function unless ­”

“Can’t I?” said Dr. O’Grady.  “As it just happens I have a letter in my pocket this minute .  It came by the midday post, just before the meeting, and I haven’t shown it to anyone yet.  He’s coming this day fortnight, and will unveil the statue with the greatest pleasure.”

“That settles it,” said the Major, “you’ll have to drop it now, whether you want to or not.  You can’t possibly have a statue ready by this day fortnight.”

“Ford’s point,” said Gregg ­“and there’s something in it, you know ­is that the Lord-Lieutenant can’t attend a public function unless ’God Save the King’ is played when he arrives.  He simply must have that tune on account of his position.  That’s what Ford says, anyhow.  And I’m inclined to think he’s right.  It always is played, I know.”

“Well,” said Dr. O’Grady, “we’ll play it.”

“You can’t,” said the Major.  “If you attempt to get the town band to play ’God Save the King’ ­”

“I don’t think you can really,” said Gregg.  “I know you have a lot of influence with these fellows, but that blackguard Gallagher would get their backs up and ­”

“There’ll be a riot,” said the Major.

“There’ll be no riot whatever,” said Dr. O’Grady, “if the thing’s managed properly.”

“It’s your affair, of course,” said Gregg, “but I don’t particularly want to have you going about under police protection, and that’s what you’ll be doing if Thady Gallagher catches you corrupting the nationalist principles of the people of Ballymoy by teaching the town band to play ‘God Save the King.’”

This threat seemed to produce a certain effect on Dr. O’Grady.  He sat silent for nearly a minute.  Then he asked Gregg for a cigarette, lit it, and smoked thoughtfully.

“I say, Gregg,” he said at last.  “How many people are there in Ballymoy, do you think, who would recognise ‘God Save the King’ if it was played suddenly when they weren’t expecting it?”

“Oh, lots,” said Gregg, “lots.”

“You would, I suppose,” said Dr. O’Grady, “and the Major would.  Ford would, I suppose.  Father McCormack might.  What about your police?”

“The sergeant might think it was ‘Auld Lang Syne,’” said Gregg, “he has no ear whatever.  But Moriarty would know it the minute he heard it.”

“Moriarty might be made to keep his mouth shut,” said Dr. O’Grady.  “You could threaten him.”

“Your idea,” said Gregg, “is to spring it on the town band under some other name and have it played as if ­”

“I’d tell them that it was one of Moore’s Melodies.”

“No good,” said Gregg.  “Far too many people know it.  Even if you shut up Moriarty in a cell between this and then ­”

“The thing for you to do, O’Grady,” said the Major bitterly, “is to get a version of ’God Save the King ’with variations.  I once heard ’Home, Sweet Home,’ done that way and it was all I could do to make out what tune it was meant to be.”

“That’s probably meant to be sarcastic,” said Dr. O’Grady, “but it’s not at all a bad idea.  I’ve heard ‘Home Sweet Home’ done that way and I know exactly how it goes.  ’Tum ­tum ­tiddle ­adle ­diddle ­tum ­tum ­twee ­ Mid pleasures and palaces ­Tiddle ­tiddle ­tum ­tiddle ­rat ­a ti ­tee ­ too ­though we may roam.’  Just as you think that you’re going to recognise the tune it kind of fades away and you’re left with the impression that small dogs are chasing each other up and down the piano.  I don’t see why something of the same kind mightn’t be done with ‘God Save the King,’ The Lord-Lieutenant would be quite satisfied, because he’d think we were always just going to begin and probably come to the conclusion in the end it was the fault of the band that the tune never quite came off.  On the other hand Gallagher, whatever suspicions he might have, couldn’t possibly swear that we were playing anything objectionable.  I wonder if there’s a version of ‘God Save the King’ with variations to be got anywhere?”

“Never heard of one,” said Gregg.

“I’ll write to-night,” said Dr. O’Grady.  “If there isn’t such a thing I might work one up myself.  It can’t be very difficult.”

“That will be just what’s wanted,” said the Major, “to ensure the success of the day.  A musical composition of yours, O’Grady, played by our own town band, will be quite likely to distract the Lord-Lieutenant’s attention from the fact that here’s no statue here for him to unveil.”

“You won’t mind my using your piano, Major,” said Dr. O’Grady.  “I haven’t got one of my own, and I’ll have to strum it out for a bit before I get it into shape for the band.”

“It’ll be a score off Ford,” said Gregg, “if you succeed.  But I don’t expect you will.”