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The Emergency Men
by
There was a general chorus of laughter as Harold related his experience at the railway-station. The Connollys had rested for several days under the ban of the most rigid boycott, and had become used to small discomforts. They faced the situation bravely, and turned all such petty troubles into jest; but the American was sorely disquieted to learn that there was only one servant in the house–an old man who for many years had blacked boots and cleaned knives for the family, and who had refused to crouch to heel under the lash of the boycott.
Harold stammered an apology for his unseasonable visit, but Jack cut him short.
“Nonsense, man; the more the merrier. We’re glad to have you, and if you can rough it a bit you won’t find it half bad fun.”
“Oh, I don’t mind, I’m sure,” said Harold; “only I’m afraid you’d rather have your house to yourselves at such a time as this.”
“Not we. Why, we expect some Emergency men down here in a few days. We’ll treat you as the advance guard; we’ll set you to work and give you your grub the same as an Emergency man.”
“What is an Emergency man?” inquired Harold. “Those Chesterfieldian drivers at the station seemed to think it was the worst name they could call me.”
A hearty laugh went round the circle.
“If they took ye for an Emergency man, it’s small wonder they were none too swate on ye,” observed Mr. Connolly.
“But what does it mean?” asked the New-Yorker.
“Well,” began the old gentleman, “there’s good and bad in this world of ours. When tenants kick and labourers clare out, an’ a boycott’s put on a man, they’d lave yer cattle to die an’ yer crops to rot for all they care. It’s what they want. Well, there happens to be a few dacent people left in Ireland yet, and they have got up an organization they call the Emergency men; they go to any part of the country and help out people that have been boycotted through no fault of their own–plough their fields or reap their oats or dig their potatoes, an’ generally knock the legs out from under the boycott. It stands to reason that the blackguards in these parts hate an Emergency man as the divil hates holy water; but ye may take it as a compliment that ye were mistook for one, for all that.”
Here Dick thrust his head into the door of the large library, in which the party was assembled.
“Dinner is served, my lords and ladies,” he cried; and there was a general movement toward the dining-room.
“No ceremony here, my boy,” laughed Jack, as he led Harold across the hall. “I’ll be your cavalier and show you the way. The girls are in the kitchen, I suppose.”
But Miss Connolly and Agnes were already in the dining-room, and the party gathered round the well-spread board and proceeded to do full justice to the good things thereon. The meal was more like a picnic than a set dinner. Old Peter Dwyer, the last remaining retainer, had never attended at table, so he confined himself to kitchen duties, while the young Connollys waited on themselves and on each other. A certain little maid, whom Harold by this time had identified as Bella, devoted herself to the stranger, and took care that neither his glass nor his plate should be empty. A glance of approval, which he intercepted on its way from Miss Connolly to her little sister, told Harold that Bella had been given a charge concerning him, and he appreciated the attention none the less on that account, while he ate his dinner with the agreeable confidence that it had been prepared by Miss Polly’s own fair hands.
Everything at table was abundant and good of its kind, and conversation was alert and merry, as it is apt to be in a large family party. So far, the boycott seemed to have anything but a depressing effect, though Harold could not help smiling as he realised how it would have crushed to powder more than one estimable family of his acquaintance.