This, as far as I could gather, was the subject of the somewhat upbraiding letter which had arrived from headquarters. "Arrah, thin, and it's the truth they're spakin'," said one voice, "and we'll need to be moving." "Move, is it? How'll you move when only the half of yez--and that's some of yez as are not here the night--come to the meetings? Sure we could move fast enough if all the boys that's sworn would jine us." "Anyhow, here's the paper. It 'ud be a shame if Donegal was not to have a hand in the turn-out when it comes. Bedad, I'd move across to Antrim if it came to that." "And as for officers, sure we're well off for them. Isn't Larry Flanagan here a rale born secretary; and Jake Finn makes an iligant treasurer; and as for captain--" "Ah, I can name you the man for that." "Who now? for it's not iverybody that'll suit." "Tim Gallagher's your man." If I started at this, the sound was lost in the general acclamation which the proposal evoked. "Faith, and you've named the very boy. Young as he is, his heart's in the business." "And more by tokens, he's well spoke of by them that know. I'm even told Lord Edward has a good word for him." "If there's anything against him, it is that he's brother to that scurvy informer that set Gorman on to us, and who, I hear, is still about. Tim will have to go the whole hog if he's to lead us. There's hunting down to be done, I warn you, as well as fighting." "Anyhow, Tim's the boy for us, and I propose him. He's due back this week, if he's not caught by his honour's ferrets." "That brings us to the other matter," said the man already spoken of as Flanagan, the secretary, in whom I recognised one of my old persecutors, "and it's about that same vermin. I've a letter from the Ulster Committee bidding us deal with Gorman in a way that's best for the good of Ireland." "That means a bullet in him," said one man bluntly. "Faith, and you've hit it, my lad. We've been squeamish enough." "It's got to be done, and soon, or he'll get the upper hand of us. There's men of his away seizing the arms in Rathmullan and Milford this week--him as was the manes of bringing them in too!" "It's one man's job. His house is too well guarded for a raid; he must be met on the hillside. I say, let's draw lots. To-morrow he's to ride to Malin by the Black Hill road." "Ay, that's the road Terence Gorman rode the night he paid his debts. It's a grand place for squaring up is the Black Hill." "Come now," said Flanagan, who had been busily marking a piece of paper, "there's a paper for each of yez, and the one that draws the cross is the boy for the job. Come, one at a time now; draw out of my ould hat, and good luck to yez all." One by one they advanced and drew, and the lot fell on one they called Paddy Corkill, whose vicious face fell a little as he saw the fatal mark. "Arrah, and it's me hasn't aven a gun," said he.