he was promise-bound and sober; but when one of the
enemy, a boon companion on any other day, sought him out in the stable
yard and, with the light of devilment in his eyes, walked up holding out
a flask of whiskey and said: "Hartigan! Ye white-livered, weak-need
papist, ye're not man enough to take a pull at that, an' tip the hat aff
of me head!" Hartigan's resolutions melted like wax before the flare of
his anger. Seizing the flask, he took a mouthful of the liquor and
spurted it into the face of the tormentor. The inevitable fight did not
amount to much as far as the casualties went, but what loomed large was
the fact that Hartigan had filled his mouth with the old liquid
insanity. Immediately he was surrounded by those who were riotously
possessed of it, and in fifteen minutes Jimmy Hartigan was launched on
the first drunken carouse he had known since he was a married man in
public disgrace with the priest for mating with a Protestant.

The day wore on and the pace grew faster. There were fun and fighting
galore, and Jimmy was in his element again. Occasional qualms there
were, no doubt, when he had a moment to remember how Kitty would feel
about it all. But this was his day of joy--mad, rollicking, bacchanalian
joy--and all the pent-up, unhallowed hilarity of the bygone months found
vent in deeds more wild than had ever been his before.

The Orangemen's procession started from their lodge, with three drums
and one fife trilling a wheezing, rattling manglement of "Croppies Lie
Down," whose only justification lay in the fact that it was maintaining
a tradition of the time; and Jimmy Hartigan, besieged in the livery yard
with half a dozen of his coreligionists, felt called upon to avenge the
honour of the South of Ireland at these soul-polluting sounds. Someone
suggested a charge into the ranks of the approaching procession, with
its sizzling band and its abhorrent orange-and-blue flags, following in
the wake of Bill Kenna, whose proud post was at the head of the
procession, carrying a cushion on which was an open Bible. The fact that
Bill was a notorious ruffian--incapable of reading, and reeling
drunk--had no bearing on his being chosen as Bible carrier. The Bible
fell in the dust many times and was accidentally trampled on by its
bearer, which was unfortunate but not important. Bill bore the emblem of
his organization and, being a good man with his fists, he was amply
qualified for his job.

But the sight of all