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So it was agreed, and in a few minutes the sides were chosen, little Ben Fallows falling to Rory as last choice. "We'll give ye Ben," said Tom, whose nerve was coming back to him. "We don't want to hog on ye too much." "Never you mind, Ben," said Rory, as the little Englishman strutted to his place among Rory's men. "You'll earn your supper to-day with the best of them."
I order you to surrender!" At that moment a rifle was fired by some one in the fort, and the ball passed through Captain Rory's face from side to side under the eyes. He fell backwards, but immediately recovered, and stood on his feet flourishing his claymore. Then he began to walk backward, his face to the fort. Several shots were fired at him, and Jim called out,
Dividing his men into squads, he had been carrying out the policy of simultaneous preparation, and while part of his men had been getting the plates to their places, others had been making ready the "purlines" and laying the rafters in order so that, although beaten by Rory in the initial stages of the struggle, when once his plates were in position, while Rory's men were rushing about in more or less confusion after their rafters, Barney's purlins and rafters moved to their positions as if by magic.
Rory's next duty was to chop up a bit of firewood, and stack it beside the door. Dusk was gathering by this time; and Mrs. O'Halloran called Mary to prepare her for the night, while Rory and I seated ourselves on the bucket-stool outside. Presently a lighted lamp was placed on the table, when we removed indoors.
"And, by the way, if there's anything in the inspiration of Art if the Artist soars to truth by the path which no fowl knoweth your theory may find some support in the fact that it was a usage of the Renaissance to represent the skull of Adam at the foot of the cross." "Ay that!" And Rory's note-book was out again. "Which artists, Tammas?" "Martin Schoen end of 15th century, for one.
However, all this must be taken as referring back to my own apparently insignificant decision not to disturb the masterly inactivity of that sundowner under the wilga. As a matter of fact, I approached Rory's neat, two-roomed hut speculating as to why he had purposely left me to feel my own way. I soon formed a good rough guess.
After breakfast, we took our bridles and went out toward where the five horses were feeding together, the inevitable child pattering along by Rory's side. "You have a lot to be thankful for," I remarked. "Blessed be His Name!" thought Rory aloud; and I continued, "You must make up your mind to send her away to school in another four or five years." "Iv coorse," replied Rory sadly.
After this, I shall pick out of each consecutive month the 9th day for amplification and comment, keeping not too long in one tune, but a snip and away. Go to, then. Goolumbulla. To Rory's.
"She's got no name," remarked the grim voice from the interior of the house. And the mild, apologetic glance of the child in my face completed a mental appraisement of Rory's family relations. Half an hour passed pleasantly enough in this kind of conversation; then Rory came in sight at the wicket gate where I had entered.
Rory's character was made up of two fine elements, the poetic and the prosaic, but these were not compounded. There was a dreamy, idealistic Rory, born of a legend-loving race; and there was a painfully parsimonious Rory, trained down to the standard of a model wealth-producer.
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