The Revolutionary or Reformer, who hesitates at becoming a bore, is unworthy of his high office; and Larry, like most of his class, required but little encouragement. He produced a large book, old and shabby, the green and gold of its covers stained and faded, but still of impressive aspect. "There are heaps of them, and they're all jolly good. It's rather hard to choose--" began the Revolutionary with a shade of nervousness. Then he again met Christian's eyes, shining and compelling, and took heart from them. "Well, there's 'Fontenoy,' of course that's a ripper--Well, I don't know what _you'll_ all think, but _I_ think this is a jolly good one," he said with a renewal of defiance, and began to read, at first hurriedly, but gathering confidence and excitement as he went on: "Did they dare, did they dare, to slay Owen Roe O'Neill? Yes, they slew with poison, him they feared to meet with steel. May God wither up their hearts! May their blood cease to flow! May they walk in living death, who poisoned Owen Roe! We thought you would not die--we were sure you would not go, And leave us in our utmost need to Cromwell's cruel blow-- Sheep without a shepherd, when the snow shuts out the sky-- Oh! Why did you leave us, Owen? Why did you die?" The Elder Statesmen listened in critical silence, while Larry, not without stumbles, stormed on through the eight verses of the poem. When he had finished it, there was a pause. The audience was impressed, even though they had no intention of admitting the fact. Christian gave a tremendous sigh. The contest for the defunct rabbit, that had been arrested, broke out again, fiercely, but with caution. Then Richard said, dubiously: "Well, that's all right, Larry--I meant it's jolly sad, and awfully good poetry, I'm sure--but how on earth are you going to work a show out of it? I can't see--" "Unless," interrupted Judith, thoughtfully, "unless we sort of acted it--?" John, who loved "dressing up," woke to life; even Richard began to see daylight. "That's not a bad notion, Judy!" he said briskly: "bags I Cromwell! Larry, you can be Owen what's-his-name." Larry came down like a shot bird from the sphere of romance to which the poem had borne him. "I hadn't thought of any scheme," he said, pulling himself together; "I only wanted to give you a kind of notion of the rotten way England's always treated Ireland--" "But let's!" cried Christian; "let's act the whole book!"