dy belonging to
me had ever been rack-rented. I had never seen any of my own people
evicted. No great judge of assize had ever looked down on me from his
bench to the dock and addressed to me stern words. I had never heard
the clang behind me of a prison door. No royal hand of an Irish
constabularyman had ever brought a baton down on my head. No carbine had
ever butted the soft places of my body. I had no scars that might redden
with memories. The memories I had and that might give me courage were
not memories of landlords. There was nothing of anger in my heart for
the Gobstown landlord, and he went by. I dragged my legs out of the
ditch and drowned my cousin's gun in a boghole. After it I dropped in
the handful of cartridges. They made a little gurgle in the dark water
like blood in a shot man's throat. And that same night I went home, put
a few things in a red handkerchief, and stole out of Gobstown like a
thief. I walked along the roads until I came to this town, learned my
trade, became a respectable shoemaker, and--tell your mother I never use
anything only the best leather. There are your boots, Padna, tips and
all ... half-a-crown. Thanks, and well wear!"

THE RECTOR

The Rector came round the gable of the church. He walked down the sanded
path that curved to the road. Half-way down he paused, meditated, then
turning gazed at the building. It was square and solid, bulky against
the background of the hills. The Rector hitched up his cuffs as he gazed
at the structure. Critical puckers gathered in little lines across the
preserved, peach-like cheeks. He put his small, nicely-shaped head to
one side. There was a proprietorial, concerned air in his attitude. One
knew that he was thinking of the repairs to the church, anxious about
the gutters, the downpipe, the missing slates on the roof, the painting
of the doors and windows. He struck an attitude as he pondered the
problem of the cracks on the pebble-dashed walls. His umbrella grounded
on the sand with decision. He leaned out a little on it with
deliberation, his lips unconsciously shaping the words of the ultimatum
he should deliver to the Select Vestry. His figure was slight, he looked
old-world, almost funereal, something that had become detached, that
was an outpost, half-forgotten, lonely; a man who had sunk into a parish
where there was nothing to do. He mumbled a little to himself as he came
down to the gate in the high wall that enclosed the churc