With Sinn Fein and American flags flying, the delegates' car rolled up to the outskirts of the crowd. A sharp order. The crowd-fearing bayonets lunged forward. Frank Walsh, looking through his tortoise-rim glasses at the steel fence, got out of his car. He walked up to the pointing bayonets, and asked for the man in charge.
Frank Walsh: "What's the row?"
The casualness of the question must have disarmed Lieutenant-Colonel Johnstone of the Dublin Military Police. He laughed. Then conferred. While the confab was on, the Countess Markewicz slipped from Mr. Walsh's car to our paling. She was, as usual, dressed in a "prepared" style. She had on her green tweed suit with biscuits in the pockets, "so if anything happened."
Countess Markewicz, rubbing her hands: "Excellent propaganda! Excellent propaganda!"
The motor lorries chugged. Soldiers broke line, and climbed in. The people screamed, jumped, waved their hands, and hurrahed for Walsh. Mr. Walsh returned to his car. And in the path made by the heartily boohed motor lorries, the American's machine commenced its victorious passage to the Mansion House. In order to get through the crowd to the reception we sprang to the rear of the motor. Clinging to the dusty mudguard, I remarked to Miss Pankhurst that we would not look very partified. And she, pushed about by the tattered people, said she did not mind. Long ago she had decided she would never wear evening dresses because poor people never have them.
Last act. Turkish-rugged and velvet-portièred reception room of the Mansion House. Assorted people shaking hands with the delegates. Delegates filled with boyish glee at the stagey turn of events.
Frank Walsh: "Look! There's Bob Barton talking to his sister. Out there by
the portrait of Queen Victoria—see that man in a green uniform. That's
Michael Collins of the Irish Volunteers and minister of finance of the
Irish Republic. The very men they're after.
"Is this a play? Or a dream?"
[Footnote 1. British propaganda, on the contrary, states that the Irish are not in the physical agony of extreme poverty. They are prosperous. They made money on munitions, and their exports increased enormously during the war.
"You could eat shell as easily as make it," was one of the first parliamentary rebuffs received by Irishmen asking the establishment of national munition factories at the beginning of the war, according to Edward J. Riordan. Mr. Riordan is secretary of the National Industrial Development Association. This is a non-political organization of which the Countess of Desart, the Earl of Carrick, and Colonel Sir Nugent Everard are some of the executive members. It was not until 1916 that Ireland secured consideration of her rights to a share in the war expenditure. In that year, an all-Ireland committee called on Lloyd George. He said: "It is fair that Ireland, contributing as she does not only in money but in flesh and blood, should have her fair share of expenditure…. I should be prepared to utilize whatever opportunities we can to utilize the opportunity this gives you to develop Ireland industrially." After persistent effort, however, all that the all-Ireland committee was able to get was five small munition factories. The insignificance of these plants may be realized from the fact that at the time the armistice was declared there were only 2,250 workers in them.