I did not quite see why it had to be; but Crossan spoke with such conviction that I dared not contradict him and did not even like to question him. Fortunately he explained himself.
“I’m the Grand Master, as your lordship is aware,” he said.
“Worshipful” is the title of courtesy applied to Grand Masters, and I’m sure no one ever deserved it better than Crossan.
“If we’re not ready for them, my lord, they’ll have our throats cut in our beds as soon as ever they get Home Rule.”
“They,” of course were the “Papishes,” Crossan’s arch enemies.
I wanted very much to hear more of his activities among the Orangemen. I wanted to know what steps he, as Grand Master, was taking to prevent cut-throats creeping in on us while we slept. I thought I might encourage him by telling him something he would be pleased to hear.
“McConkey,” I said, “who is foreman in the Green Loaney Scutching Mill, is buying a splendid quick-firing gun.”
The remark did not have the effect I hoped for. It had an exactly opposite effect. Crossan shut up like a sea anemone suddenly touched.
“Your lordship’s affairs won’t be neglected,” he said stiffly. “You may count on that.”
I felt that I could. I have the utmost confidence in Crossan’s integrity. If a body of “Papishes” of the bloodiest kind were to come upon Crossan and capture him; if they were to condemn him to death and, being God-fearing men, were to allow him half an hour in which to make his soul; he would spend the time, not in saying his prayers, not even in cursing the Pope, but in balancing the accounts of the co-operative store, so that any auditor who took over the books afterwards might find everything in order.