I was coming home across one of the bridges over the canal on the south side of the city. Men, women, and children were peering over into the water, and I peered too. All I saw were four big, important policemen, who seemed to be guarding the canal.
Then, in the middle of the canal, I discovered a large oil drum floating with the Sinn Fein flag on top. Below the flag was a placard—“Spies and Informers, beware.”
While I was still gaping, as was everybody else, a lorry load of troops, with tin hats and rifles, rattled up.
“This is thrilling!” I exclaimed.
At every window was a head, at most two, in some there were half a dozen heads, and the crowd, which had fallen back before the troops, drifted as near as it dared.
The capture of the bridge and the bank of the canal was the matter of moments, and then there was an armistice while two officers, displaying many ribbons, discussed the next stage of the attack.
“Certain to be mined,” I heard one declare. “What would be the sense of the Shinners putting a thing like that there if it wasn’t?”
“There may be a dead body attached. Some poor devil gone west,” answered the other. He scratched his head. “Let’s put a shot into it to make sure.”
“Blow the bally canal to bits, what?” declared the first man, gaily. Then he became depressed.
“There must be a catch in it,” declared the second man. “Some one’ll have to go out and see to it. Where the devil’s a boat?”