The phrase had a familiar shape, as if he had made it himself a long time ago. Don’t take me for granted! Yes, it fitted into its place, all right, the same phrase, with the same man, and it had the same ring, though everything else was different. James sat up straight then, a stumpy block of a man filling a kitchen chair. He had left off his Sam Browne belt, but he still wore the trench coat and leggings as proof of that national record, which began when he was taken by the Tans from his job in the creamery store and carried as a hostage on their raids through the countryside. (It was only after his escape that his military genius emerged. Although no one but Father Conroy seemed to wonder whether he had ever been within the sights of a British rifle, his feints and night maneuvers had terrified the Tans with visions of an unsleeping enemy on the prowl. Fabius Cunctator, Father Conroy had called him, with grudging admiration. But Fabius Cunctator had been caught out by Hannibal. No one had ever caught out Uncle James.)

One short, shining leg swung carelessly over the other, he sat, very sure of himself, of his uniform, of the new role he had won in public affairs, even of his place as head of the Conroy clan. “Don’t take me for granted,” Father Conroy had told him, across the still-to-be-furnished room. Just back from England, the young priest had been too late for the Black and Tan War, but just in time for a small, local conflict which was more bitterly personal and on which, as yet, he had not taken the side expected of him.

“You don’t understand, Father.” James smiled forbearingly. “How could you, and you away so long? It’s not a question of wages. That might have been fixed easily enough – twenty-five shillings, thirty shillings a week, whatever it might be. No, what they’re demanding from us now is our right to the soil. Imagine that! Here we are, giving them every thing – a free cottage, milk, potatoes, as much turf as they can cut – all for the bit of work they do for us. And now they come and grudge us our right to hold our own land.”

“What land? I’ve no land. You’ve no land.”

“Ah, for God’s sake, Father, you know well what I mean. The right of the Irish farmer to his own land. We may not have any land, you or I, but ’tis in us, we were born to it.”

“‘Ireland summons her children to her flag and strikes for her freedom.’ By God, strikes is right. The poor divils have their wages cut by ten bob a week as soon as ye get yer freedom.”