use this man for a text, not knowing that he is outside the pale already.”
“An’ which ov us have the right tu put up the pale?” said the priest, gravely.
“The men do it. The rotters and the others—the chaps who are going to help cook the world’s pie in the future. But the tourist doesn’t know anything about them.”
“It’s a hot fire many ov thim will use for the bakin’,” said Father Denis, his eyes on Randal’s shut hand and mouth.
“I believe you. They will be the men who have learnt first-hand. And you can’t learn anything without sweating some of the greenness out of you first. The men who learn first-hand aren’t generally sappy.”
“If that pie has no taste ov burrn tu it, ’twill be because ye’re dead fust, Ormond. Crow away on yer dung hill, me young cock. It is not the worrld will be throubled by ye.”
Ormond stood up, straddling before the fire. His shadow fell across the room to a girl’s face on the wall. That face was Father Denis’ story. It had taught him all he knew.
“This is a populous farmyard, and it’s going to be noisier than you think. In this way. It is the People who make the Colonies. It is the Aristocracy who make the Old World—and the Laws. Well, the People stand flat-foot upon the earth, and you can’t upset them, be-
