We had reached Mrs. Slaney’s quarters. They were upside down.
“Look at this!” she exclaimed. “Monstrous! They have no respect for sex or age. They thought they would terrify me; but I’m not afraid, not if the whole British Army were to come. I never flinched once, and the man in charge was abominably rude. I showed them that an Irish woman, and an elderly and helpless one at that, could face them. I never flinched.”
Mrs. O’Grady had recovered her voice.
“It’s black trouble you’ve brought on us all, and it’s worse you’ll bring. Leaving bullets under your bed where little girls can find them.”
“What do you mean?”
Mrs. O’Grady shook.
“You can’t pretend that you didn’t know those bullets were there, not to me, mum. Little Polly Pluck told me on them weeks ago, and it’s little sleep either O’Grady or me has had ever since.”
My mind leaped back to the day Mrs. O’Grady had talked so mysteriously.
“Do you mean to say that you kept such stuff there? Why didn’t you send it to the proper quarters?” demanded Mrs. Fitzgerald. “If you’d told me, I could have had it all taken away by the right people.”
“A few war trophies!” Mrs. Slaney exclaimed. “A few simple war trophies of no interest to anybody?”