During these autumn days of 1920 poor Dinny Lacy was constantly with me in Dublin, and many an exciting adventure we had together, dodging or defying “G” men, or spies who got on our trail. Dinny, whose name figured prominently in the events of 1920 to 1922, was born in Goldengarden, in the heart of Tipperary. He was educated in Donaskeigh School in the parish of the patriotic Father Matt Ryan, the “General of the Land War.” Dinny was a great sprinter and footballer; in fact he was an all-round man. His home was only about a mile from mine, and we knew each other from boyhood. He went to Tipperary town as a boy, and soon became his employer’s most trusted man as manager of a big coal and provision premises. He never smoked or drank and he was always extremely religious, and could be seen at Mass every morning in Tipperary. He was always a keen student of the Irish language and he became an enthusiastic Volunteer from the very start of that force. In Easter Week of 1916 he was one of the small band who answered the call to mobilise for action at Galbally, six miles from Tipperary, but the countermand sent him home, and like the rest of the men of Tipperary, he was given no chance of striking a blow that week. In the summer of 1916 he was one of the most enthusiastic in favouring the reorganisation of the Irish Volunteers as a fighting force. Modest and unassuming he was always on the look-out for a rifle or a revolver, and he spent all his own money in making such purchases. He gave everything, even his life, in the cause of freedom. During 1917 and 1918 I came into frequent contact with him again. He took part in the big fight at Kilmallock in May, 1920, and shortly afterwards he had to go on the run. Henceforth he became one of the most daring and successful fighters against the British. So much was he hated by the Black and Tans that they actually burned down the house in which he had lodged in Tipperary. Poor Dinny! He escaped the bullets of the English only to be killed by the Free Staters in an encounter in the Glen of Aherlow early in 1923. However, I must resume my story. I knew my days were numbered if I remained in Dublin. The British had spies and “touts” and “spotters” everywhere. They had promised liberal rewards for information, and were at this time making desperate efforts to restore their Secret Service and to match it against ours. Everywhere one saw the khaki and the guns and the lorries. It was quite a common thing for an ordinary pedestrian to be held up and searched by troops on the streets six or seven times in the one day. They jumped off lorries and searched and questioned passers-by. They boarded tramcars and searched every passenger. They surrounded whole blocks of buildings and remained for days with a cordon drawn around while every house was being searched from cellar to attic. All these things were not rare, but daily occurrences.