Frank looked at them and saw that they were both on their knees in the Tortoise scooping up water in tin dishes.
The bailing was finished at last. The packing was nearly done. Priscilla walked up to the camp dragging Jimmy Kinsella with her by the collar of the coat.
“Barnabas,” she said, “have you got a revolver?”
Mr. Pennefather looked up from a roll of blankets which he was strapping together.
“No,” he said. “I don’t carry revolvers.”
“I think you ought to,” said Priscilla. “I mean whenever you happen to be running away with the daughter of the First Lord of the War Office or any one like that. But, of course, being a clergyman may make a difference. It’s awfully hard to know exactly what a clergyman ought to do when he’s eloping. At the same time it’s jolly awkward you’re not having a revolver, for Jimmy Kinsella says he won’t go to Inishbawn and we can’t all fit in the Tortoise.”
“Leave him to me,” said Frank. “Just bring him over here, Priscilla, and I’ll deal with him.”
“I’ll not take you to Inishbawn,” said Jimmy.
Priscilla handed him over to Frank. It was a long time, more than two years, since Frank had acquired some reputation as a master of men in the form Room of Remove A.; but he retained a clear recollection of the methods he had employed. He seized Jimmy Kinsella’s wrist and with a deft, rapid movement, twisted it round. Jimmy had not enjoyed the advantages of an English public school education. Torture of a refined kind was new to him. He uttered a shrill squeal.
“Will you go where you’re told,” said Frank, “or do you want more?”