The story of how the Evanses had played the police off against the Volunteers was soon the talk of the countryside for many a mile, and so queer and uncertain is the Irish peasant’s mentality that, where one would have expected them to be furious and determined to be avenged, on the contrary their great sense of humour was immensely tickled at the idea of the police defending the Ardcumber distillery, and the Evanses became popular heroes. After the Volunteer attack, Blake, being afraid that they might make another attempt to capture the arms in Ardcumber House, offered David a party of Black and Tans for protection, but this offer was refused. For some time His Majesty’s mail cars carried the Ardcumber poteen punctually and efficiently—in fact, far better than either O’Dowd or Flanagan had done. Petrol tins were still used to put the poteen in, and Evans would leave the full tins at a garage twice a week, where the mail cars got their petrol from, and if a mail car carried a few extra tins of petrol, who thought anything about it? Unfortunately the mail contract for that district ran out a few months afterwards, and this time was given to a man from the north, an Orangeman, and once again Evans had to find a fresh way of sending round the country his now famous poteen. But so popular had the Evanses become that, instead of having to seek agents, they received offers to deliver the poteen from the manager of a creamery in the Cloonalla district, and also from the manager of a Cooperative Society in a village distant about four miles from Ardcumber. Evans closed with both offers, and the cousins redoubled their efforts to turn out all the poteen they possibly could, knowing that an end must come sooner or later. Two months afterwards the Auxiliaries discovered that the creamery was being used as a Sinn Fein prison, and, as a result, raided the place one night and burnt it to the ground. Incidentally, they found several full petrol tins in the manager’s office, filled up their petrol tanks with them, and could not make out why the cars would not start. It is both possible and probable that, except for some unforeseen accident, the Evanses might have gone on making and selling poteen for an indefinite time—in fact, as long as the country remained in the present state of chaos. The distillation of poteen always has and always will appeal to the western peasant, and the story of how the Evanses called in the police to defend their still against the attack of the Volunteers will be told over the firesides of many a cottage for generations to come—long after Sinn Fein is dead and buried.