Then, during the night, the policeman’s body was to be removed to a hay-loft and buried secretly the following night, under arrangements to be made by Flanagan, in a bog outside the village, where several unfortunate Volunteers, who had fallen in an attack on the local police barracks, were buried. Meanwhile the hotel boots, who was a carpenter by trade, would make ventilation holes in the coffin, and the “funeral” party would set off for Ballybor before daybreak. The last part of the negotiations resembled the selling of a horse at a fair, and the price he had to pay sobered Flanagan and nearly turned his hair white,—not one yard would they go with O’Hara until they got £100; but by now Flanagan was desperate, and if they had demanded £200 he would have paid it. At last all the details were settled, and Flanagan went home to warn O’Hara of his coming journey in the coffin: the thought that in a few hours he would be free of the man for good and all made life worth living again. But his joy was short-lived. On entering the kitchen he found four long-haired young men making a hearty meal—more victims of British tyranny, all on the run for the murder of policemen—and his heart sank at the thought that there would probably be more to follow: in fact his house was being used as a clearinghouse for all the “wanted” men of the adjoining county. Flanagan woke up O’Hara, told him of the arrangements which had been made to get him to Ballybor, and added that four more men had just turned up, and that it failed him to know how to pass them on. O’Hara thought for a moment, and replied, “Sure it’s easily known how—why wouldn’t they do for the mourners?” As soon as O’Hara was ready, and the young men could be persuaded to stop eating, the party set out for the hotel in order to get away before the mourners woke up. O’Hara took command, found out that one of his companions could drive a Ford, but that none of them had any idea of how to get to Ballybor, and told Flanagan that the driver of the coffin-car would have to go with them as a guide. On arrival at the hotel Flanagan roused the boots, O’Hara gave his instructions about the driver, and they then proceeded to the bedrooms of the poteen-logged mourners, who offered no protest while O’Hara removed their topcoats and hats for his companions, Flanagan seizing the opportunity of transferring his £100 from the sleeping chief mourner’s trousers pocket to his own again. By the light of a guttering candle O’Hara was packed into the coffin, and in the darkness of a raw early morning the two cars pulled out of the hotel yard, and disappeared down the road which leads to Ballybor. Flanagan, with a sigh of relief, wiped his forehead, and prayed that he might never see O’Hara in this world again, and went home feeling ten years younger, but determined not to be at home when the mourners got busy and came for an explanation. * * * * *