At this time I was dressed as a priest. That was not an uncommon disguise at the time. The Peelers and soldiers probably suspected that a good many of the priests they saw travelling knew more about guns than Theology, but seldom held any of them up. They were not then at open war with men and women, priests and children. There would be too much of a National uproar if a priest was arrested, and as the old Peelers were still overwhelmingly Catholic they gave suspicious-looking priests the benefit of the doubt. Next year they not only arrested priests, but imprisoned several, and murdered three of them. [Illustration: SEAMUS ROBINSON.] On this occasion when I reached Maynooth I discovered my back tyre was badly punctured. I did not think it becoming my clerical dignity to mend the puncture myself, and besides I had no patience with that kind of work; so I wheeled my machine to a local cycle mechanic’s shop and asked him to repair it at once. Apparently he was a man who believed in making every customer take his turn, for he told me he could not do the job for a few hours. I pointed out to him that I was going on urgent business, but it was all no use. Finally he advised me to go to the College—Maynooth College, the world’s greatest college for the training of Catholic priests—where they would easily get someone to repair it. In my rage at this refusal I forgot for a moment that I was in the garb of a minister of peace and goodwill. I told that cycle mechanic what I thought of him in language more forcible than priestly, and I am sure the poor man was amazed and shocked at the liberties which present-day clerics take with the English language. He was still staring at me in amazement when I wheeled my wounded bicycle from the door. I had no desire to visit the College. Amongst the students I would find many friends willing to help me, but I was afraid the President and the Professors might not be too well pleased to find a gunman masquerading as a clergyman, and I doubted if I would be able to play the part and pretend I was a priest. I need hardly say I was no master of Latin, and I always associated priests with that language. Still, I had to get the puncture mended. In a fit of bravado I turned towards the police barracks. At the door I met a policeman who raised his hat to me, and with a show of dignity that would have done credit to an archbishop I acknowledged his sign of respect. I told him my difficulties. Could he help me with the puncture? “To be sure, Father,” he replied, “I can get you all that you want in no time; and if your Reverence won’t mind I’ll give you a hand at the job.”