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Updated: June 9, 2025
Next him sat Babberly. Cahoon, McNeice and Malcolmson sat together at the bottom of the table. I was given a chair on Moyne's other side. Conroy would not sit at the table at all. He had two chairs in a corner of the room. He sat on one of them and put his legs on the other. He also smoked a cigar, which I think everybody regarded as bad form.
It seemed to me more probable at the moment that McNeice would in the end tumble her beautiful head from the block of a guillotine into the basket of sawdust which waited underneath. Marion and Bob Power were singing songs from Gilbert and Sullivan's operas while McNeice preached to me. They at least were having an enjoyable evening. I dare say McNeice enjoyed himself too.
Moyne flushed deeply, but he neither spoke nor struck back. Then suddenly the people seemed to forget all about us. A wild cheer burst from them. Hats were flung into the air. Sticks were waved. Some one began firing shots from a revolver in rapid succession. It was a fusillade of joy, a kind of salute to McNeice who appeared at the window of the committee-room. Moyne and I pushed our way on.
McNeice, though he does live in Dublin, has good Belfast blood in his veins. He likes his heroics to be put on a business basis. The immediate and most pressing problem, he reminded us, was to secure as large a circulation as possible for The Loyalist. "You get the paper into the people's hands," he said to Malcolmson, "and we'll get the ideas into their heads."
"It's certainly waste of labour to build up an hypothesis about a dead one." "I meant to say," I added, "that if one did want to know such a thing " "Nobody does," said McNeice. "It would," I went on, "be much simpler to write and ask him."
"She gave an address to the working-women of Belfast the week before last, one of the most moving " "All frills," said McNeice, "silk frills. Your friend Crossan is acting as one of our agents, distributing the paper for us. That'll give you an idea of the lines we're going on." Crossan, I admit, is the last man I should suspect of being interested in frills.
The Government, after driving off the British Fleet, was likely to be in a good temper, but I did not wish to keep it waiting for me too long. When I entered the room I found Conroy, McNeice, Malcolmson, Cahoon and the Dean seated at the table. Moyne was not there. "I congratulate you, gentlemen," I said, "on the result of the naval engagement. Malcolmson was perfectly magnificent.
I invited Power to dinner, and urged him to bring McNeice with him if possible. I made it quite plain that I was not inviting Godfrey. Power accepted the invitation, and sent us off in a boat. I said good-bye firmly to Godfrey at the end of the pier. I was annoyed with him for cross-questioning our host at his own table. Marion and I walked home.
But nobody liked to protest, because nobody, except me and McNeice, knew which side Conroy was going to take in the controversy before us. Babberly, I feel sure, would have objected to the cigar if he had thought that Conroy favoured extreme defiance of the Government. Malcolmson, like many military men, is a great stickler for etiquette.
People don't like it. I don't mind for myself, of course. But still it's very unpleasant. Men I know keep writing to me. You know the sort of thing I mean." I did. The members of the English aristocracy still preserve a curious sentiment which they call "loyalty." It is quite a different thing from the "loyalty" of Crossan, for instance, or McNeice.
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