With that purpose we went from Creany to the Falls of Donass, that most glorious and picturesque spot on the Shannon just across the Limerick border from North Tipperary. Then we parted with Robinson and Treacy, who started on their perilous journey to Dublin, while I remained behind with Hogan until he would be himself again. They arrived in Dublin safely, and were welcomed by a few sympathetic friends. A full and accurate description of each one of us, with the reward offered for information that might lead to our capture, appeared every week in the _Hue and Cry_, the official police gazette, and so it was no easy thing for them either to travel to the city, or to get about when they had arrived there. Meantime Hogan and I could not stay long in the district round the Keeper Mountains. But Tommy McInerney came out from Limerick with a motor car, accompanied by Tim Ryan. McInerney was the man who drove the ill-fated motor car which went to meet Roger Casement on Good Friday of 1916, when the car ran over a cliff in Kerry, and two of the occupants were drowned, McInerney himself escaping. Tim Ryan knew of a friendly priest in West Limerick who would give us shelter, and we started on our journey to meet one of the truest friends we ever made—a certain sagairt whose praises I should like to sound here, but who does not wish his name to be made known. Sean Hogan sat in front with McInerney, who was driving, Ryan and I being in the back. For a time our journey was uneventful until we approached Limerick City. We were suddenly confronted by lorry loads of soldiers dashing along in the direction of Tipperary. We knew they were on some big round up. We did not know then, though we found out later, that they had received information that we were lying in a certain hiding place, and scores of troops with armoured cars were being rushed to the scene. Never since we left Soloheadbeg did we feel in such a tight corner. One flash of suspicion on the part of a single officer of the party would have ruined us. At that time we knew that more than one British soldier, even privates, had fond hopes of earning the reward for our capture, and many of them had been at great pains to study our descriptions. Besides, it was comparatively easy for them then, in the spring of 1919, for we were then the only “much wanted men,” as the newspapers described us. An apparently endless line of lorries approached us—every soldier armed to the teeth, every lorry equipped with a machine gun. The smallest show of concern on our part meant our death warrant: the slightest sign of fear or anxiety would betray us. And there was no turning back. To attempt such a thing would be an open challenge by three men to several hundred soldiers. Coolness and bluff were our only hope.