As a start we were prodded all over for arms and seditious documents, and I was told to give up my pocket-book.
“Any money in it?” demanded the strenuous Auxiliary, as I was passing it over.
“Thirty bob, I think,” I answered.
“Well, count it and see,” he ordered, “or you’ll say we pinched it.”
I counted it and handed him the pocket-book, which he went through page by page, asking me to explain every likely-looking sentence. Finally he slapped it back at me on the table. He waved a hand at some dirty biscuits and dirtier blankets, which were stacked in a corner.
“You can take some of those,” he said, “and doss on the floor.”
I nodded to show I was grateful for the favour, and O’Grady and I explored these biscuits. I wondered if O’Grady had ever been in as bad straits before. I had had to put up with all sorts of beds in my life, beds on the bare earth, beds on the rolling sea, most bitter barren beds; but they had not taught me to be friendly to the colour of these blankets. However, O’Grady seemed to find what he wanted, took off his boots, put his hard hat on top of them, rolled up just as he had been standing, and was asleep before I had made a first choice. Before long the men nodding by the fire came across.
“The old un’s got down to it quickly,” one of them said with admiration. “The old dog for the hard road.”
“You can doss by the fire there,” the other one said to me, jerking his hand to a place by the side of the fire.
I took him at his word and emigrated with two blankets which seemed to have known fewer generations of Sinn Feiners than any of the others. I grew more friendly with them as gradually I became warm and sleepy.