“McConkey is foreman in the mill.”
“The scutching mill?” I asked.
It was, of course, the scutching mill. I only asked the question in order to keep up the conversation. The long silences were embarrassing. Cahoon did not answer me. At the end of another quarter of an hour of furious driving he gave me a little further information about McConkey.
“He neither drinks nor smokes.”
This led me to think that he might be some relation to my friend Crossan, possibly a cousin.
“I happen to know,” said Cahoon a little later, “that he has upwards of £500 saved.”
Undoubtedly McConkey and Crossan are close relations, brothers-in-law perhaps.
We reached the Green Loaney Scutching Mill at about half-past five o’clock. Cahoon, who seemed to know all about the establishment, led me through some very dusty purlieus. McConkey, when we came upon him, did not seem particularly pleased to see Cahoon. He looked at me with suspicious malignity.
“There’s a gentleman here,” said Cahoon, “who wants to know whether you mean to fight rather than submit to Home Rule.”
“Aye,” said McConkey, “I do.”