reat square piles of
yellow lumber near Ford's Mill gave back the shrilling of fifes that
were tuning up for the event. As the sun rose high, the Orangemen of the
Lodge appeared, each wearing regalia--cuffs and a collarette of sky-blue
with a fringe of blazing orange, or else of gold, inscribed with letters
and symbols.

The gathering place was in the street before the Lodge Hall, and their
number was steadily increased by men from the surrounding farms. The
brethren of the opposite faith, the Catholics--more often called
"Dogans" or "Papists"--were wisely inconspicuous. Had it been their day,
their friends, assembled from far places, would have given them numbers
enough for safety and confidence; but now the boys in green were, for
the most part, staying at home and seeking to avoid offence.

In the stable yard of Downey's Hotel, where Jim Hartigan--the father of
our hero--and several others of his Church were disconsolately looking
forward to a dreary and humiliating day, the cheery uproar of the
Orangemen in the bar-room could plainly be heard. James himself was
surprised at his restraint in not being there too, for he was a typical
Irish "bhoy" from the west coast, with a religion of Donegal colour and
intensity. Big, hearty, uproarious in liquor, and full of fun at all
times, he was universally beloved. Nothing could or did depress Jim for
long; his spirits had a generous rebound. A boisterous, blue-eyed boy of
heroic stature, he was the joy of Downey's, brim-full of the fun of life
and the hero of unnumbered drinking bouts in the not so very distant
past. But--two months before--Jim had startled Links and horrified his
priest by marrying Kitty Muckevay of the gold-red hair. Kitty had a rare
measure of good sense but was a Protestant of Ulster inflexibility. She
had taken Jim in hand to reform him, and for sixty days he had not
touched a drop! Moreover he had promised Kitty to keep out of mischief
on this day of days. All that morning he had worked among the horses in
Downey's livery stable where he was head man. It was a public holiday,
and he had been trying desperately to supply a safety valve for his
bursting energy. His excitible Irish soul was stirred by the murmur of
the little town, now preparing for the great parade, as it had been
stirred twice every year since he could remember, but now to the
farthest depths.

He had swallowed successfully one or two small affronts from the passing
Orangemen, because