ast from her bow and stern to bollards on the quay. Her sails and
gear lay in confusion on her thwarts. She was still half full of gravel
although some of her cargo had been shovelled out and lay in a heap
behind Kinsella. He was apparently disinclined to shovel out the rest,
an excusable laziness, for the day was very hot.

With the point of a knife Kinsella scraped the charred ash from the bowl
of his pipe. Then he cut several thin slices from a plug of black twist
tobacco, rolled them slowly between the palm of one hand and the thumb
of the other; spat thoughtfully over the side of the quay into his boat,
charged his pipe and put it into his mouth. There he held it for some
minutes while he stared glassily at the top of his boat's mast. He spat
again and then drew a match from his waistcoat pocket.

Sergeant Rafferty of the Royal Irish Constabulary strolled quietly along
the quay. It was his duty to stroll somewhere every day in order
to intimidate malefactors. He found the quay on the whole a more
interesting place than any of the country roads round the town, so he
often chose it for the scene of what his official regulations described
as a "patrol." When he reached Kinsella he stopped.

"Good day to you," he said.

Kinsella, without looking round, struck his match on a stone beside him
and lit his pipe. He sucked in three draughts of smoke, spat again and
then acknowledged the sergeant's greeting.

"It's a fine day," said the sergeant

"It is," said Kinsella, "thanks be to God."

The sergeant stirred the pile of gravel on the quay thoughtfully with
his foot Then, peering over Kinsella's shoulder, he took a look at the
gravel which still remained in the boat.

"Tell me this, now, Joseph Antony," he said. "Who might that gravel
be for? It's the third day you're after bringing in a load and there's
ne'er a cart's been down for it yet?"

"I couldn't say who it might be for."

"Do you tell me that now? And who's to pay you for it?"

"Sweeny 'll pay for it," said Kinsella. "It was him ordered it."

The sergeant stirred the gravel again with his foot Timothy Sweeny was a
publican who kept a small shop in one of the back streets of Rosnacree.
He was known to the sergeant, but was not regarded with favour. There
is a way into Sweeny's house through a back-yard which is reached by
climbing a wall. Sweeny's front door was always shut on Sundays and
his shutters were put up during those hours when the law regards