“He does that, and it’s a crying shame, so it is, that he’s allowed to; but sure that’s the way things are in this country.” Gallagher took another gulp of whisky and waited. Doyle said nothing more. He appeared to have nothing more to say and to have mentioned Mr. Ford’s name merely for the sake of making conversation. But Gallagher wished to develop the subject. “What about Mr. Ford?” he said, after a long silence. “He’s terrible down on the erection of the statue to General John Regan.” “I’m that myself,” said Gallagher. “Mr. Ford will be pleased when he hears it; for there’ll be no statue if you set your face against it. It’ll be then that Mr. Ford will be proud of himself. He’ll be saying all round the Country that it was him put a stop to it.” “It will not be him that put a stop to it.” “It’s what he’ll say, anyway,” said Doyle. Gallagher finished his whisky in two large gulps. “Let him,” he said. “Have another drop,” said Doyle. “It’s doing you good.” Gallagher pushed his tumbler across the table. Doyle replenished it. “I’d be sorry,” said Doyle, “if Mr. Ford was to be able to say he’d got the better of you, Thady, in a matter of the kind.” “It’ll not be me he’ll get the better of.” “He’ll say it,” said Doyle, “and what’s more there’s them that will believe it. For they’ll say, recollecting the speech you made on Tuesday, that you were in favour of the statue, and that only for Mr. Ford you’d have had it.” “If I thought that——” said Gallagher. “Come along over now to the committee,” said Doyle, “and we’ll have the statue just in derision of him.” “It isn’t the statue that I’m objecting to,” said Gallagher, “nor it isn’t the notion of a new pier. You know that, Doyle.” “I do, of course.” “And if it’s the wish of the people of this locality that there should be a statue——” “It is the wish,” said Doyle. “Didn’t you say yourself that the people was unanimous about it after the meeting in the market square?” Gallagher rose from his chair and pushed his papers back on the table. He crushed his soft hat down on the back of his head and turned to the door. “Come on,” he said. “I knew well,” said Doyle, “that you’d do whatever was right in the latter end. And as for the tune that was troubling you, it’s even money that the band will never play it. Father McCormack was telling me yesterday that the big drum’s broke on them on account of one of the boys giving it a kind of a slit with the point of a knife. The band will hardly ever be able to play that tune or any other tune when they haven’t got a big drum.” CHAPTER XIII