“It was in the paper and no more stir made of it than if a stray dog was run over by an automobile—shot down they were, martyrs to Ireland.” His voice was oratorical, funereal, heavy with resentment.
“Who?” asked Freda.
“Fine young Irishmen with the grace of God in their hearts shot down by the hired wastrels of the Tyrants. Gentlemen and patriots.”
“What an outrage it is,” she answered.
He burst into invective at her sympathy, rolling his mighty syllabled words in denunciation, and his family sat around and listened in agreement yet in amusement.
“Come now, pop, you’ll be going back, if you get as hot under your shirt as all that,” said Mike.
“It’s too hot for excitement, pa,” Mrs. Nesbitt contributed equably. “Pass him the mustard, do you, Cele.”
“I’ll show you a true account of it in The Irish News,” said Mr. Nesbitt, to Freda, ignoring his family.
He wiped his mouth noisily and abandoned the table, coming back to press into Freda’s hands his Irish News, a little out of fold with much handling.
“The city papers tell you nothing but lies,” he said, “read this.”