ch as might
possibly be expected in the heart of Africa, but hardly in a civilised
country, especially when that country is under the benignant British
rule. The law-breakers seem to have the upper hand, and to be almost,
if not quite, masters of the situation. The whole estate is divided
into three properties, Fort Ann, Milltown, and Bodyke, about five
thousand acres in all, of which the first two comprise about one
thousand five hundred acres, isolated from the Bodyke lands, which
latter may amount to some three thousand five hundred acres. Either by
reason of their superior honesty, or, as is sometimes suggested, on
account of their inferior strategic position, the tenants of the Fort
Ann and Milltown lands pay their rent. The men of Bodyke are in a
state of open rebellion, and resist every process of law both by
evasion and open force. The hill-tops are manned by sentries armed
with rifles. Bivouac fires blaze nightly on every commanding eminence.
Colonel O'Callaghan's agent is a cock-shot from every convenient
mound. His rides are made musical by the 'ping' of rifle balls, and
nothing but the dread of his repeating rifle, with which he is known
to be handy, prevents the marksmen from coming to close quarters. Mr.
Stannard MacAdam seems to bear a charmed life. He is a fine athletic
young man, calm and collected, modest and unassuming, and, as he
declares, no talker. He has been described as a man of deeds, not
words. He said, "I am not a literary man. I have not the skill to
describe incident, or to give a clear and detailed account of what has
taken place. I have refused to give information to the local
journalists. My business is to manage the estate, and that takes me
all my time. You must get particulars elsewhere. I would rather not
speak of my own affairs or those of Colonel O'Callaghan."

There was nothing for it but to turn my unwilling back on this
veritable gold mine. But although Mr. MacAdam could not or would not
speak, others were not so reticent, and once in the neighbourhood the
state of things was made plainly evident. The road from Ennis to
Bodyke is dull and dreary, and abounds with painful memories.
Half-an-hour out you reach the house, or what remains of it, of
Francis Hynes, who was hanged for shooting a man. A little further and
you reach the place where Mr. Perry was shot. A wooded spot,
"convaynient" for ambush, once screened some would-be murderers who
missed their mark. Then comes the hous