Hurriedly we decided on our course of action, and made our preparations. Ned Reilly and the O’Keeffe brothers gave us every help in laying our plans before we left Thurles. Having completed these arrangements we left the town of Thurles at 11 o’clock on the morning of May 12th, 1919. Our hearts were sad, but we still had hopes, and our blood was boiling with anger, anxiety and excitement. [Illustration: J. J. HOGAN.] Mounted on our bicycles the three of us faced for Emly. Except for the hour’s sleep after the dance we had now been five nights without a rest. In the ordinary course Emly would have been only some thirty miles from us, but for obvious reasons we had to avoid the main roads, and could not pass near Tipperary town. We covered nearly fifty miles on that journey, over rough and uneven roads. It was one of the toughest rides we ever did. The journeys that Sean Treacy and I had done to and from Dublin were less wearisome. As we approached Donohill, Seumas Robinson’s bicycle was put out of action. We had neither the time nor the means to try to repair it on the roadside, but we had faithful friends. Patrick O’Dwyer, of Donohill, whose wife was a first cousin of Sean Hogan’s, put a new bicycle at our disposal, and we resumed our journey. Our fatigue was telling on us. We could have fallen off the bicycles and slept by the roadside, but the excitement and our sense of loyalty to our comrade kept up our strength. At Oola we actually fell asleep on our bicycles, but again we bestirred ourselves, and on we went doggedly, up hill and down dale with our teeth set and our minds fixed on rescue or death. We made a detour to the right, through the Martial Law area, and over the border into County Limerick, through the historic village of Cullen, and on to Ballyneety, past the ruins of the old castle, on the very same road that Patrick Sarsfield took on that moonlight night three hundred and thirty years before, when his sabre brought terror to Dutch William’s troops. It was a strange coincidence that we who now rode on a similar errand of death or glory were Tipperary outlaws, just as was Galloping Hogan, the man who made Sarsfield’s exploit possible that night. And we were going to rescue another Tipperary outlaw of the same name and clan. While Sean Treacy was reminding us of these pages of history—for he loved his Irish history—we were interrupted by a dull thud, and looking round we saw that poor Robinson had fallen off his bicycle and was fast asleep by the roadside. We had to keep moving, time was precious, and the three of us mounted again and reached Emly at half-past three on the morning of May 13th. On the way we had stopped once or twice to complete our plans, and to perfect our intelligence arrangements. Once we got a rude shock when a bomb dropped from Robinson’s pocket, and for a moment we thought we were being attacked.