the steel fence, got out of his car. He walked up to the pointing bayonets,
and asked for the man in charge.

Frank Walsh: "What's the row?"

The casualness of the question must have disarmed Lieutenant-Colonel
Johnstone of the Dublin Military Police. He laughed. Then conferred. While
the confab was on, the Countess Markewicz slipped from Mr. Walsh's car to
our paling. She was, as usual, dressed in a "prepared" style. She had on
her green tweed suit with biscuits in the pockets, "so if anything
happened."

Countess Markewicz, rubbing her hands: "Excellent propaganda! Excellent
propaganda!"

The motor lorries chugged. Soldiers broke line, and climbed in. The people
screamed, jumped, waved their hands, and hurrahed for Walsh. Mr. Walsh
returned to his car. And in the path made by the heartily boohed motor
lorries, the American's machine commenced its victorious passage to the
Mansion House. In order to get through the crowd to the reception we sprang
to the rear of the motor. Clinging to the dusty mudguard, I remarked to
Miss Pankhurst that we would not look very partified. And she, pushed about
by the tattered people, said she did not mind. Long ago she had decided she
would never wear evening dresses because poor people never have them.

Last act. Turkish-rugged and velvet-portièred reception room of the Mansion
House. Assorted people shaking hands with the delegates. Delegates filled
with boyish glee at the stagey turn of events.

Frank Walsh: "Look! There's Bob Barton talking to his sister. Out there by