I was never more glad to see a man’s back. In due time Mr Callan came down in his night-cap, lantern in hand.
“Turnips,” said he, as he looked first at me, then at the cart. “Whose turnips are they?”
“They’re from Knockowen, sir,” said I. “My father, Mike Gallagher, bade me tell you there’s more where they came from.”
He pulled the bolt of his yard gate without a word, and signed to me to back in the cart; which I did, dreading every moment lest the watchman should return.
When we were inside, the gate was shut, and Mr Callan turned his lantern towards me.
“You’re a young lad to send with a load like this,” said he. “Did no one overhaul you on the road?”
I told him about the two soldiers, and what the man at the inn had said.
He said nothing, but bade me unload.
The turnips were soon taken out. Under them was a layer of sacking, and under that some thirty or forty muskets, with a box or two of ammunition.
These Mr Callan and I carefully carried up to a loft and deposited in a hollow space which had been prepared in a pile of hay, which was carefully covered up again, so as to leave no trace of the murderous fodder it hid.