“Now what may you be wanting?” said Mrs. O’Halloran.
The man on the mat—he was really little more than a boy—fumbled in one pocket after another.
His uniform, like that of the British soldier, had a good many pockets. Finally he drew out a sheet of paper.
“This is my authority,” he said, “from the Provisional Government of the Irish Republic.”
He handed the paper to Mrs. O’Halloran.
“If it’s a collection you’re making for the Irish Language Fund,” said Mrs. O’Halloran, “her ladyship gave half a crown last week to one of yees, and she’ll give no more, so you can take yourselves off out of this as quick as you like.”
“We are not collectors,” said the young man, with dignity.
“Whether you are not, it’s what you look,” said Mrs. O’Halloran, “dressed up in them clothes, with your toy guns and all. You ought to be ashamed of yourselves.”
The suggestion that his rifle was not a real weapon roused the spirit of the young man.
“In the name of the Irish Republic,” he said, “I take possession of this house for military purposes.”