“Come this afternoon to the printer’s house in Marquis Street; you’ll hear more of Gorman then, maybe. Pikes and hemp is the word. No questions will be asked—not if you are Ireland’s friend.”
“I’ll be there,” said I; “and God save Ireland!”
“Amen!” said he, and we parted.
It was, as I learned presently, the babbling of foolish talkers like this poor fellow that wrecked the Irish conspiracy.
As for me, I confess I felt misgivings. I was a servant of his Majesty, and had no business with secret conspiracies. Yet, when a life so precious to me was at stake, how could I help trying to do something to save it? Besides (and this salved my conscience a little), had I not promised Tim, in the last hour I was with him, to strike a blow for my country?
For hours that morning I paced the streets of Dublin debating with myself, trying to reconcile dishonour with honour, and love with duty; determining one hour to fail in my appointment, in another to keep it and report all I heard to the government.
Finally, anxiety and curiosity got the better of me, and at the appointed hour I stood at the door of the printer’s office in Marquis Street.
No one challenged me as I entered or passed through the outer shop, where a lad was at work folding pamphlets. But at the inner door, leading to the press-room, a little shutter slid back and a face looked out.
“Pikes and hemp,” said I.
“Name.”