“You know the sort. Absolutely reliable, fearless, and skilled men devoted soul and body to the cause for which we all would so cheerfully die.... Will you do it?”
There was a silence. Soane moistened his lips reflectively. Lehr, intelligent, profoundly interested, kept his keen, pleasant eyes on Murtagh Skeel. Only the droning electric fans, the rattle of a newspaper, the slap of greasy cards at the skat table, the slobbering gulp of some Teuton, guzzling beer, interrupted the sweltering quiet of the room.
“Misther Murtagh, sorr,” said Soane with a light, careless laugh, “I’ve wan recruit f’r to bring ye.”
“Who is he?”
“Sure, it’s meself, sorr—av ye’ll sign the likes o’ me.”
“Thanks; of course,” said Skeel, with one of his rare smiles, and taking Soane’s hand in comradeship.
“I’ll go,” said Lehr, coolly; “but my name won’t do. Call me Grogan, if you like, and I’ll sign with you, Mr. Skeel.”
Skeel pressed the offered hand:
“A splendid beginning,” he said. “I wanted you both. Now, see what you can do in the Sinn Fein and Clan-na-Gael for a crew which, please God, we shall require very soon!”