“The Colonel,” he said, “is the Grand Master of the Orangemen in these parts.”
Colonel Eden, a J.P., and the principal landlord in the parish, drove into the yard in his motor. A police sergeant slipped his pipe into his pocket, stepped forward and took the number of the Colonel’s car. It has never been decided in Ireland whether motor cars may or may not be used, under the provisions of D.O.R.A., for attending auctions.
We know that the safety of the empire is compromised by driving to a race meeting. We know that the King and his Army are in no way injured by our driving to market. Attendance at an auction stands midway between pleasure and business; and the use of motors in such matters is debatable.
“It’s the D.I’s orders, sir,” said the sergeant apologetically.
“All right,” said the Colonel, “but if the D.I. expects me to fine myself at the next Petty Sessions hell be disappointed.”
James McNiece and Dan Gallaher touched their hats to the Colonel.
“Morning, James,” said the Colonel. “Morning, Dan. Fine day for the sale, and a good gathering of people. I don’t know that I ever saw a bigger crowd at an auction.”
He looked round as he spoke. The whole parish and many people from outside the parish had assembled. The yard was full of men, handling and appraising the outdoor effects. Women passed in and out of the house, poked mattresses with their fingers, felt the fabrics of sheets and curtains, examined china and kitchen utensils warily.
“There’s the doctor over there,” said the Colonel, “looking at the stable buckets, and who’s that young fellow in the yellow leggings, James?”
“I’m not rightly sure,” said James McNiece, “but I’m thinking he’ll be the new D.I. from Curraghfin.”