But the Irish courtesy, praised by Father McCor-mack, prevailed against the general feeling of disappointment. When Mr. Billing ceased speaking there was a moment of doubtful silence. No one quite realised that he had really stopped. He had indeed descended from his chair, and, except for the top of his head, was invisible to most of the audience. But everyone expected him to get up again and start fresh. It seemed quite incredible that a public speaker, with an audience ready found for him, could possibly throw away a valuable opportunity and content himself with a simple five minutes of plain talk. It was not until Father McCormack rose from his chair with a sigh and began to make his way towards his presbytery that the people understood that the meeting was really at an end. Then they cheered quite heartily. Mr. Billing crossed the square and walked over towards the hotel. He smiled and nodded right and left as he went. An outburst of cheering pursued him through the door. Sergeant Colgan and Constable Moriarty had stood during the speeches in a quiet corner near their barrack. When Father McCormack went home and Mr. Billing entered the hotel, they marched with great dignity up and down through the people. They looked as if they expected someone to start a riot It is the duty of the police in Ireland on all occasions of public meetings to look as if there might be a riot, and as if they are quite prepared to quell it when it breaks out. It is in this way that they justify their existence as a large armed force. Occasionally Sergeant Colgan spoke a word of kindly advice to anyone who looked as if he had drunk more than two bottles of porter. “It would be as well for you, Patsy,” he would say, “to be getting along home.” Or, “I’m thinking, Timothy John, that you’d be better this minute if you were at home.” There are no stronger believers in the value of the domestic hearth than the police. They always want everyone to go home.