CHAPTER XII 



There was an air of calamity and yet of 

 Sunday about the Quins' farmyard. The 

 pigs were shut up, tubs and buckets were 

 put out of sight, and Tom Quin's little 

 nephew, in his best frock, spent many hours 

 of blissful autocracy in banishing the fowl 

 from the doorstep to Siberias behind the 

 rick of turf. Very early in the day two 

 stalwart and dapper members of the Royal 

 Irish Constabulary had made their appear- 

 ance, and from time to time women in 

 hooded blue cloaks made their way along 

 the causeway that skirted the manure heap, 

 groaned, crossed themselves, and entered 

 the house. In a large shed where Tom 

 Quin had often threshed oats and chopped 



furze, his body had been laid on two tables, 

 160 



