“Is it so?” grinned Soane.
“It surely is.”
“Well, then, be aisy, Misther Barres, dear. Av there’s hangin’ to be done this time, ’twill not be thim as wears the green that hangs!”
Barres slowly shook his head:
“This is German work. You’re sticking your neck into the noose.”
“Lave the noose for the Clan-na-Gael to pull, sorr, an’ ’twill shqueeze no Irish neck!”
“You’re a fool, Soane! These Germans are exploiting 246 such men as you. Where’s your common sense? Can’t you see you’re playing a German game? What do they care what becomes of you or of Ireland? All they want is for you to annoy England at any cost. And the cost is death! Do you dream for an instant that you and your friends stand a ghost of a chance if you are crazy enough to invade Canada? Do you suppose it possible to land an expedition on the Irish coast?”
Soane deliberately winked at him. Then he burst into laughter and stood rocking there on heel and toe while his mirth lasted.
But the inevitable Celtic reaction presently sobered him and switched him into a sombre recapitulation of Erin’s wrongs. And this tragic inventory brought the inevitable tears in time. And Woe awoke in him the memory of the personal and pathetic.
The world had dealt him a wretched hand. He had sat in a crooked game from the beginning. The cards had been stacked; the dice were cogged. And now he meant to make the world disgorge—pay up the living that it owed him.