British blockade won the war; but the wonder is that the British
blockhead did not lose it. I suppose the enemy was no wiser. War
is not a sharpener of wits; and I am afraid I gave great offence
by keeping my head in this matter of Irish recruiting. What can I
do but apologize, and publish the play now that it can no longer
do any good?



O'FLAHERTY V.C.

At the door of an Irish country house in a park. Fine, summer
weather; the summer of 1916. The porch, painted white, projects
into the drive: but the door is at the side and the front has a
window. The porch faces east: and the door is in the north side
of it. On the south side is a tree in which a thrush is singing.
Under the window is a garden seat with an iron chair at each end
of it.

The last four bars of God Save the King are heard in the
distance, followed by three cheers. Then the band strikes up It's
a Long Way to Tipperary and recedes until it is out of hearing.

Private O'Flaherty V.C. comes wearily southward along the drive,
and falls exhausted into the garden seat. The thrush utters a
note of alarm and flies away. The tramp of a horse is heard.

A GENTLEMAN'S VOICE. Tim! Hi! Tim! [He is heard dismounting.]

A LABORER'S VOICE. Yes, your honor.