It may be as well to again mention that my wife during the very worst periods had never any difficulty in keeping or obtaining domestic servants. No doubt the maids liked having two or three stalwart constables always hanging about the place, and capital odd job men they made.
A constable neatly humbugged a footman, and I may here mention the incident, though it is subsequent to the episode of this chapter.
One house we took in London was in Glendower Place, and when the servants arrived, my wife found that the footman's face was covered with sticking-plaster. He was a regular gossoon, though shaped like a fine specimen of the pampered menials who condescend to open the front door of large mansions to their betters.
A constable had hoaxed him into believing that he could never walk in the London streets without using firearms, and having advised him to learn to do so, the idiot put the weapon against his cheek, and the first kick had knocked away a voluminous portion of his countenance.
At the end of November 1884, we were packing up to leave, and all the big cases were in the stable-yard ready to be carted away. There were five policemen at the time in the house, and two of them were on sentry duty all through the night.
None of us had had good nights for some time past, but on the evening of November 29th I came back from the meeting of the Board of Guardians at Listowel, and said to my wife as we sat down to dinner:—
'After all, we are starting for England to-morrow morning without any necessity, for I do believe the country is beginning to settle down.'
This is the only occasion on which I ever ventured on a cheerful prophecy since Ireland came under the baneful spell of Mr. Gladstone, and it was the most foolish remark I ever made.
That night came the explosion, but I prefer to let the press tell the tale.
The Manchester Guardian relates:—