may count for something. Then there is Malcolmson,
a man of almost incredible stupidity, but with a knowledge, hammered
into him no doubt with extra difficulty, of how to handle guns.

O'Donovan and McNeice were bending over some proof sheets and talking
in low whispers; there was a knock at the office door, and a moment
later Malcolmson entered. He looked bristlier than ever, and was
plainly in a state of joyous excitement. He held a copy of the first
number of _The Loyalist_ in his hand. He caught sight of me at once.

"I'm damned," he said, "if I expected to see you here, Kilmore. You're
the last man in Ireland--"

"I'm only here by accident," I said, "and I'm going away almost at
once. Let me introduce you to Mr. McNeice and Mr. O'Donovan."

Malcolmson shook hands with the two men vigorously. I never shake
hands with Malcolmson if I can possibly help it, because he always
hurts me. I expect he hurt both McNeice and O'Donovan. They did not
cry out, but they looked a good deal surprised.

"I happened to be in Dublin," said Malcolmson, "and I called round
here to congratulate the editor of this paper. I only came across it
the day before yesterday, and--"

"You couldn't have come across it any sooner," I said, "for it's only
just published."

"And to put down my name as a subscriber for twenty copies. If you
want money--"

"They don't," I said, "Conroy is financing them."

"Conroy has some sound ideas," said Malcolmson.

"You approve of the paper, then?" said McNeice.

"I like straight talk," said Malcolmson.

"We aim at that," said O'Donovan.

"I'm dead sick of politics and speech making," said Malcolmson. "What
I want is to have a slap at the damned rebels."

"Mr. O'Donovan's point of view," I said, "is almost the same as yours.
What he wants--"

"I'm glad to hear it," said Malcolmson, "and I need only say that when
the time comes, gentlemen, and it won't be long now if things go on as
they are going--you'll find me ready. What Ireland wants--"

Malcolmson paused. I waited expectantly. It is always interesting to
hear what Ireland wants. Many people have theories on the subject, and
hardly any one agrees with any one else.

"What Ireland wants," said Malcolmson dramatically, "is another Oliver
Cromwell."

He drew himself up and puffed out his chest as he spoke. He must, I
think, have rather fancied himself in the part of a twentieth century
Puritan horse soldier. I looked round at O'Donovan to