up a tall ladder with broken rungs.

I went up the ladder after them--it was very shaky in the middle--and,
putting my head through the loft, gave a greeting to a number of dark
figures lying in the same kind of straw that I had smelled downstairs.
One boy was sitting with his back to the beams, playing a penny whistle
very softly to himself, or perhaps to the rats under the straws.

"The craytures are that bold," said a boy from County Cork, "that when
we first came in they sat up smilin' and sang 'God Save Ireland.' Bedad,
and it's the truth I'm after tellin' ye."

The billets were wet and dirty. But it was good to be away from the
shells, even if the rain came through the beams of a broken roof and
soaked through the plaster of wattle walls. The Irish boys were good at
making wood fires in these old barns and pigsties, if there were a
few bricks about to make a hearth, and, sure, a baked potato was no
Protestant with a grudge against the Pope.

There were no such luxuries in the trenches when the Dublins and the
Munsters were up in the firing-line at the Hohenzollern. The shelling
was so violent that it was difficult to get up the supplies, and some
of the boys had to fall back on their iron rations. It was the only
complaint which one of them made when I asked him what he thought of his
first experience under fire.

"It was all right, sorr, and not so bad as I'd been after thinking, if
only my appetite had not been bigger than my belt, at all."

The spirit of these Irishmen was shown by some who had just come out
from the old country to join their comrades in the firing-line. When the
Germans put over a number of shells, smashing the trenches and wounding
men, the temper of the lads broke out, and they wanted to get over the
parapet and make a dash for the enemy. "'Twould taych him a lesson,"
they told their officers, who had some trouble in restraining them.

These newcomers had to take part in the digging which goes on behind the
lines at night--out in the open, without the shelter of a trench. It was
nervous work, especially when the German flares went up, silhouetting
their figures on the sky-line, and when one of the enemy's machine-guns
began to chatter. But the Irish boys found the heart for a jest, and one
of them, resting on his spade a moment, stared over to the enemy's
lines and said, "May the old devil take the spalpeen who works that
typewriter!"

It was a scaring, nerve-racking time for those